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To Keats
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O, dear son of beauty--o, father of Indolence
   Do not die more ever, nor live forever.
 Unjust to thee across our eyes from innocence.
Not sadness to her mercy hand of sever
   Shall thy illness bear unwritten Ode of Psyche ness.
For how high is our heavens, can my arms reach
   Further to yours? O shall thee compare?
        Of truth--but is our beauty of truth
    As thou Urn of Grecian inheritance and share?
But to feel in City Pent with one who was long
      Felt thus fair glance into thy heavenly tongue.
To ye, who hath to leave Hyperion an unsolved faller,
     ‘Here lies one whose name was writ on water.’