Of a spirit which has suffered, yet has soared
Above the stench of hell and death's defeats.
I look at you, as often I have pored
On the death mask of Keats.
Or the face of him quickly and gladly going
The waves of the sea under,
To the land of man's unknowing,
Or the land of wonder.
And the war had you! what can it give
In return for souls like yours