John Keats, if he were living, with sad eyes Might from his window view the Roman Street Turned to a bank of flowers where his feet Wore the gray stones, as under alien skies He fled familiar beauty. The vendors' cries, Laughter, and all the bloom that makes earth sweet Have filled this corner of his last retreat With liberal loveliness that never dies. Poor Keats, a cypress shade forever falls Above your unnamed grave by Severn's side, No sound, no step, no scent, while rose and musk Rise to your window in these yellow walls, And for memorial, at eventide, Three blind men fiddle in the gathering dusk. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PORTRAIT OF ONE DEAD by CONRAD AIKEN THE FIDDLING WOOD by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET THE SAVING WAY by HAYDEN CARRUTH DRUMS AND BRASS by DONALD (GRADY) DAVIDSON ON GOING UNNOTICED by ROBERT FROST BRIGHTNESS AS A POIGNANT LIGHT by DAVID IGNATOW TO HENRY LINCOLN JOHNSON - LAWYER by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON |