THE APOTHEOSIS OF JOHN KEATS

o bright ascension!


still to our untuned ears you play


the unheard melodies beyond the ragged cough


of the every day


the blood on the kerchief showing death is near


but still but still the nightingales hold sway


captive in your rain soaked gardens and glad to be singing


in the mulberry branches of your poems your fervid dreams


the ecstacy of timbrels cool quiet of the lilies.


what was the wine press of your soul to leave


such shattering odes at the door of death for


who can transpose in our day even one degree of your
measure


perfect as it is. the pearl of forever.


the embroidered lines grow wings and would depart


such was your art transfiguring but something, someone bids them stay


to remind us in a minimal age nothing beautiful can die


when it was made that way.


mary angela douglas 25 january 2020