Classic Poem

Death hath his fancies, and why not? A king
So great as he, must have his royal whim, —
Sometimes a fool, sometimes the wailing string
Of some slain minstrel's harp, must humor him.

There was a youthful singer once, a soul
Loved of the gods, and hence not loved of men,
Who sang too well, and, shame to say, the whole
Small race of songsters rose against him then.

And all the critics too — like daws that peck
Some lustrous jewel from its golden setting —
Beaked his fair lines, so, hastening on to wreck
The fragile bark that every flaw was fretting.

Love, also, with his barbed baby spear,
Racked all the chambers of his heart with anguish;
But bravely through it all, more strong and clear
Went up his matchless song that would not languish.

And all so well he pleased the sable king,
Though many a famous bard sang at his call,
That straight he sent his messenger to bring.
This tortured soul which pleased him best of all.

So Keats was brought, and when his strain beguiled.
The sad-faced king and his brave company
To strange, unwonted tears — Death kindly smiled,
Approving his unequaled minstrelsy.

And when at times his watchful eye could trace
The swiftly-passing spasm of fierce pain
Which swept across the minstrel's pallid face,
He quickly cried, " Thy songs were not in vain;

" Fixed in the world's large memory they shall live,
Undying as that beauty to whose shrine
Thy kneeling soul brought all thou hadst to give;
All things of which thy heart once dreamed are thine:

" As thou didst leave them they shall picture thee
Both to thine own and far-off other lands,
And while men sing, thy name shall never be
Forgotten in their songs. " And so he stands,

A fair-formed image of immortal youth
Breasting the steep hillside of life's endeavor;
A white-robed herald of eternal truth
Shouting a message from the gods forever.