The Grave of Keats (Lowell)

But one rude stone for him whose songRevived the Grecian's plastic ease,Till men and maidens danced alongIn youth perpetual on his frieze!

Where lies that mould of senses fineMen knew as Keats awhile ago,We cannot trace a single signOf all that made his joy below.

There are no trees to talk of himWho knew their bushes and their swells,Where myriad leaves in forest dimBuild up their cloudy citadels.

No mystic-signaled passion-flowersSpread their flat discs, while buds more fairSwing like great bells, in frail green towersTo toll away the summer air.

O Mother Earth! thy sides he boundWith far-off Venus' warmer zone,With statelier sons thy landscape crowned,Whose chiming voices matched thine own!

O Mother Earth, what hast thou broughtThis tender frame that loved thee well?Harsh grass and weeds alone are wroughtOn his low grave's uneven swell.