The weakest murmur of his lips you prize.
And thou, strong soul in a weak body pent,
Spirit of Keats! It was not thine to know
In thy brief span the joy, the generous glow
Of common praise and common wonderment.
But wearying until the clarion breath,
The voice of fame, should fix thy name among
Immortals, came the murmur soft as song,
As sad as thine—the summoning of death.
O sorrow that the deaf world would not hear