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.