Ode to Keats

Sing, Nightingale, sing; Sing your mourning chant,
Sing because there is no poet to capture you in an eternal instant.
The harvest was too soon, but only for the seeds withered
The fruits are mature and the reaping was plentiful…

But now sing, Nightingale, when we drink wine from the urn;
The merciless lady was gone when we lay on a barren land;
Where is the poetry, Where is the poetry ? Sleeping…
Poets journey in the waking world and poetry is sweetly gone…

Thy star doth faint whilst I dreamed a forever Joy;
Beauty steadfast as thou art in the peaceful Eve;
When the words with solitude interlace in sweetly decoy;
Keeping eternal whisperings abound in the still midnight!

Go now Nightingale, go now to your new bridal chamber;
Wretched was that dreaded February when dream was embalmed;
The poet is pale and the poetry loitering  - such Bitter chill it was!
Unfelt, unheard, unseen his soul dwells in The Mermaid Tavern…