But one rude stone for him whose song
Revived the Grecian's plastic ease,
Till men and maidens danced along
In youth perpetual on his frieze!
Where lies that mould of senses fine
Men knew as Keats awhile ago,
We cannot trace a single sign
Of all that made his joy below.
There are no trees to talk of him
Who knew their hushes and their swells,
Where myriad leaves in forest dim
Build up their cloudy citadels.
No mystic-signaled passion-flowers
Spread their flat discs, while buds more fair
Swing like great bells, in frail green towers,
To toll away the summer air.
O Mother Earth! thy sides he bound
With far-off Venus' warmer zone,
With statelier sons thy landscape crowned,
Whose chiming voices matched thine own!
O Mother Earth, what hast thou brought
This tender frame that loved thee well?
Harsh grass and weeds alone are wrought
On his low grave's uneven swell.