Sonnet 57: To Keats
D
David Wood
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Keats, how sad your troubled life seemed to be
'Twas TB, that dreadful great leveller.
What a pity it robbed the world of thee
You became a European traveller.
Your works remained hidden from our still heart,
And you suffered such pain and awful distress.
Missed by your loved one you had to depart
To the city of Rome for you did bless
To breathe fresh air from a milder winter.
Your sorrow does not make thee less of a man
Because you thought your life writ in water.
But, heaven blessed, your poetry still can
Reach the modern man of many still parts
And open up that mind and reach our hearts.
Bu şiiri puanla
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