Drop from their hands in the sunset seas,
And an incense, out of the old brown missions,
Blows through the orange trees;
I wished that a poet who died in Europe
Had found his way to this rose-red West;
That Keats had walked by the wide Pacific
And cradled his head on its healing breast,
And made new songs of the sun-burned sea-folk,
New poems, perhaps his best.
I thought of him, under the ripe pomegranates