The Grave Of Keats
Rid of the world's injustice1， and his pain，
He rests at last beneath God's veil of blue：
Taken from life when life and love were new
The youngest of the martyrs2 here is lain，
Fair as Sebastian， and as early slain3.
No cypress4 shades his grave， no funeral yew5，
But gentle violets weeping with the dew
Weave on his bones an ever-blossoming chain.
O proudest heart that broke for misery6！
O sweetest lips since those of Mitylene！
O poet-painter of our English Land！
Thy name was writ7 in water - it shall stand：
And tears like mine will keep thy memory green，
As Isabella did her Basil-tree.
ROME.
