Classic Poem

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.