To John Keats

Great master!  Boyish, sympathetic man!
Whose orbed and ripened¹ genius lightly hung
From life's slim, twisted tendril and there swung
In crimson-sphered completeness; guardian
Of crystal portals through whose openings fan
The spiced winds which blew when earth was young,
Scattering wreaths of stars, as Jove once flung
A golden shower from heights cerulean.
Crumbled² before thy majesty³ we bow.
Forget thy empurpled state, thy panoply
Of greatness, and be merciful and near;
A youth who trudged⁴ the highroad we tread now
Singing the miles behind him; so may we
Faint throbbings of thy music overhear.