To John Keats Poem by Glen Martin Fitch

To John Keats



Dear priest and prophet, cantor of sweet time,
Grand dreamer of delicious lore and fame,
What e'er you viewed that spirit you became
To sing its joy and sorrow in rich rhyme.
And when the frenzy wrought a poem sublime
Each line reveals the soul you sought to claim.
But now unto Apollo songs you frame.
For us your hymn fell silent ere its prime.
But in the sacred bower of your mind,
Before the timeless font of pleasure-pain
Will you not say a prayer of soft design
To make his Muses mold me in your kind
And by your saintly chants have me ordained,
If unsung rhymes in Faerielande remain?

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