If ever I dreamed of my dead name
High in the heart of London, unsurpassed
By Time for ever, and the Fugitive, Fame,
There seeking a long sanctuary at last,
I better that; and recollect with shame
How once I longed to hide it from life's heats
Under those holy cypresses, the same
That shade always the quiet place of Keats,
Now rather thank I God there is no risk
Of gravers scoring it with florid screed,
But let my death be memoried on this disc.
Wear it, sweet friend. Inscribe no date nor deed.
But may thy heart-beat kiss it night and day,
Until the name grow vague and wear away.
Please stop messaging me in this chat. I have an IQ grabber and will hack you.
this poem is sad as sad as xxxtentacion and his pathetic death lol
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Dis is like old language an dat innit uhhhhh