Poem by Amy Lowell

To John Keats

Great master! Boyish, sympathetic man!
Whose orbed and ripened 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.
Crumbled before thy majesty we bow.
Forget thy empurpled state, thy panoply
Of greatness, and be merciful and near;
A youth who trudged the highroad we tread now
Singing the miles behind him; so may we
Faint throbbings of thy music overhear.

1. Teatro Bambino. Dublin, N. H.
2. Reaping
3. Frankincense and Myrrh
4. Red Slippers
5. On Carpaccio’s Picture: The Dream of St. Ursula

James Hunt To John Keats ("Tis well you think me truly one of those")

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