John Keats

          John Keats

‘the last lineal descendent of Apollo’ ~ Arthur Hallam

The inmost soul of poetry is Keats.

Its spirit is derived from locks of hair

And curls about his temples.  Muse’s seats

         

In heaven rock with wonder and despair

When goddesses consider how our loss

Of genius in his chanting throat and lips

Quakes far beyond our measure.  Words emboss

The universe because perfection slips

Out in the ether in between the stars

And giant planets from his pen and eyes

Now dead.  The lines are metal-clad like Mars

Or golden like Greek prehistoric skies.

  Apollo rises up to take their fire

    And touch it to his son as with a lyre.