For the Anniversary of John Keats’ Death

At midnight when the moonlit cypress trees

Have woven round his grave a magic shade,

Still weeping the unfinished hymn he made,

There moves fresh Maia like a morning breeze

Blown over jonquil beds when warm rains cease.

And stooping where her poet's head is laid,

Selene weeps while all the tides are stayed

And swaying seas are darkened into peace.

But they who wake the meadows and the tides

Have hearts too kind to bid him wake from sleep

Who murmurs sometimes when his dreams are deep,

Startling the Quiet Land where he abides,

And charming still, sad-eyed Persephone

With visions of the sunny earth and sea.