So Malice sharp'd his pen, and nibbled it, And leered 'neath faltering eyelids at the flame Of his calm candle till a notion came, Coarse, acrid, with a distant hint of wit. Once more he simmered, and once more he writ, Till not a dash was dull, a comma lame; Then exquisitely failed to sign his name, Leaving the world to trace a slug by its spit. Such was the barb, O Keats, (vain tongues would have), Troubled in its calm flight thy lovely art; Cankered thy youth, thy faith; abashed the brave, Untarnishable sweetness of thy heart: How should these dullards dream @3they@1 winged the dart That pierced thee, silent, in th'unanswering grave! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CALLING DREAMS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON UNDER A TELEPHONE POLE by CARL SANDBURG DIXIE by DANIEL DECATUR EMMETT IN VINCULIS; SONNETS WRITTEN IN AN IRISH PRISON: A CONVENT WITHOUT GOD by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT THE WORST OF IT by ROBERT BROWNING CHARADES: 5 by CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 2. EXCEPT THE LORD BUILD THE HOUSE by EDWARD CARPENTER |