by Henry Van Dyke

The melancholy gift Aurora gained

From Jove, that her sad lover should not see

The face of death, no goddess asked for thee,

My Keats! But when the crimson blood-drop stained

Thy pillow, thou didst read the fate ordained, --

Brief life, wild love, a flight of poesy!

And then, -- a shadow fell on Italy:

Thy star went down before its brightness waned,

Yet thou hast won the gift Tithonus missed:

Never to feel the pain of growing old,

Nor lose the blissful sight of beauty's truth,

But with the ardent lips that music kissed

To breathe thy song, and, ere thy heart grew cold,

Become the Poet of Immortal Youth.