2206 - For the Anniversary of John Keats' Death
    (February 25, 1821)
    At midnight, when the moonlit cypress trees
    Have woven round his grave a magic shade,
    Still weeping the unfinished hymn he made,
    There moves fresh Maia, like a morning breeze
    Blown over jonquil beds when warm rains cease.
    And stooping where her poet's head is laid,
    Selene weeps, while all the tides are stayed,
    And swaying seas are darkened into peace.
    But they who wake the meadows and the tides
    Have hearts too kind to bid him wake from sleep,
    Who murmurs sometimes when his dreams are deep,
    Startling the Quiet Land where he abides,
    And charming still sad-eyed Persephone
    With visions of the sunny earth and sea. 
    (Sara Teasdale)


© José Pacheco Pereira
Site Meter [Powered by Blogger]