The Hard Truth: Keats
The myth rides gently on that wasting death.
Consumption weakened him as if a spell
Were cast by Tories hating lines with breath
For weaker ones among us. He was well
In brain and soul, this little giant filled
With all nobilities, this genius of
The heart. His magnanimity was spilled
In all directions, volcanic in love.
Still even so it seems he had the clap.
Besides his high-flown thoughts and affection
For that innocent next door girl, this chap
Was teeming with more than one infection.
..His sonnets, odes and epics still can heal
….Us, but this lad was not himself some soft ideal.