POET to poet gave this mask, of him Who sang the song of Rapture and Despair; Who to the Nightingale was kin; aware Of all the Night's enamouring -- the dim Strange ecstasy of light at the moon's rim; The unheard melodies that subtly snare The listening soul -- Pan's wayward pipes that dare To conjure shapes now beautiful, now grim. He who this life-mask prized so tenderly Might not behold the semblance that it wore, The charm ineffable -- now sweet, now sad: But well he knew what loveliness must be Upon the face of Keats for evermore, And with his spirit's gaze saw and was glad. |