John Keats

THE weltering London ways where children weep And girls whom none call maidens laugh,—strange road Miring his outward steps, who inly trode The bright Castalian brink and Latmos' steep:— Even such his life's cross-paths; till deathly deep He toiled through sands of Lethe; and long pain, Weary with labour spurned and love found vain, In dead Rome's sheltering shadow wrapped his sleep. O pang-dowered Poet, whose reverberant lips And heart-strung lyre awoke the Moon's eclipse,— Thou whom the daisies glory in growing o'er,— Their fragrance clings around thy name, not writ But rumour'd in water, while the fame of it Along Time's flood goes echoing evermore.