21.06.2007, 21:56
THE LIFE-MASK OF KEATS
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.
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.