Fair and free of soul poesy, O Keats!
O how my temples throb, my heart-blood beats,
At every image, every word of thine!
Thy bosom, pierced by Envy, drops to rest;
Nor hearest thou the friendlier voice, nor seest
The sun of fancy climb along thy line.

But under it, altho a viperous brood
That stung an Orpheus (in a clime more rude
Than Rhodope and Haemus frown upon)
Still writhes and hisses, and peers out for more
Whose buoyant blood they leave concreted gore,
Thy flowers root deep, and split the creviced stone.

Ill may I speculate on scenes to come,
Yet I would dream to meet thee at our home
With Spenser's quiet, Chaucer's livelier ghost,
Cognate to thine . . not higher, and less fair . .
And Madalene and Isabella there
Shall say, without thee half our loves were lost .
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