Keats

The melancholy gift Aurora gained
From Jove, that her sad lover should not
see
The face of death, no goddess asked for thee,
My Keats! But when the crimson blood-drop
stained
Thy pillow, thou didst read the fate ordained,—
Brief life, wild love, a flight of poesy!
And then,—a shadow fell on Italy:
Thy star went down before its brightness waned.

Yet thou hast won the gift Tithonus missed:
Never to feel the pain of growing old,
Nor lose the blissful sight of beauty’s truth,
But with the ardent lips that music kissed
To breathe thy song, and, ere thy heart grew
cold,
Become the Poet of Immortal Youth.