Me bring my own gods in.
To John Keats, Poet. At Spring Time[A]
(For Carl Van Vechten)
I CANNOT hold my peace, John Keats;
There never was a spring like this;
It is an echo, that repeats
My last year’s song and next year’s bliss.
I know, in spite of all men say
Of Beauty, you have felt her most.
Yea, even in your grave her way