In Hampstead, Keats lay listening, wondering from where
A song melodious charmed him. He knew why
His soul cleaved to the singer’s joyous air,
Calling from beeches and a darkling sky.
Mortal, he knew that he was on the brink
Of death, his body thin, his youthful visage white,
That pain might ease with taking of strong drink,
The blushful Hippocrene, more purple than the night.
Out from the dark, scents of the flowers of earth
Set him to ponder on life’s transience, to find the words
To wish for dance and song and sun-burned mirth,
While sobbed the nightingale, most passionate of birds.
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