So Malice sharp'd his pen, and nibbled it, And leered 'neath faltering eyelids at the flame Of his calm candle till a notion came, Coarse, acrid, with a distant hint of wit. Once more he simmered, and once more he writ, Till not a dash was dull, a comma lame; Then exquisitely failed to sign his name, Leaving the world to trace a slug by its spit. Such was the barb, O Keats, (vain tongues would have), Troubled in its calm flight thy lovely art; Cankered thy youth, thy faith; abashed the brave, Untarnishable sweetness of thy heart: How should these dullards dream @3they@1 winged the dart That pierced thee, silent, in th'unanswering grave! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: JONAS KEENE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TOWARD THE GULF; DEDICATED TO THEODORE ROOSEVELT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE SHIP OF RIO by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE THE BOUGH OF NONSENSE by ROBERT RANKE GRAVES |