The Grave of Keats (Lowell)

But one rude stone for him whose song Revived the Grecian's plastic ease, Till men and maidens danced along In youth perpetual on his frieze!

Where lies that mould of senses fine Men knew as Keats awhile ago, We cannot trace a single sign Of all that made his joy below.

There are no trees to talk of him Who knew their bushes and their swells, Where myriad leaves in forest dim Build up their cloudy citadels.

No mystic-signaled passion-flowers Spread their flat discs, while buds more fair Swing like great bells, in frail green towers To toll away the summer air.

O Mother Earth! thy sides he bound With far-off Venus' warmer zone, With statelier sons thy landscape crowned, Whose chiming voices matched thine own!

O Mother Earth, what hast thou brought This tender frame that loved thee well? Harsh grass and weeds alone are wrought On his low grave's uneven swell.