On Keats
Christina RossettiA garden in a garden: a green spot
Where all is green: most fitting slumber-place
For the strong man grown weary of a race
Soon over. Unto him a goodly lot
Hath fallen in fertile ground; there thorns are not,
But his own daisies: silence, full of grace,
Surely hath shed a quiet on his face:
His earth is but sweet leaves that fall and rot.
What was his record of himself, ere he
Went from us ? Here lies one whose name was writ
In water: while the chilly shadows flit
Of sweet Saint Agnes' Eve; while basil springs,
His name, in every humble heart that sings,
Shall be a fountain of love, verily.
Christina RossettiA garden in a garden: a green spot
Where all is green: most fitting slumber-placeFor the strong man grown weary of a raceSoon over. Unto him a goodly lot
Hath fallen in fertile ground; there thorns are not,
But his own daisies: silence, full of grace,Surely hath shed a quiet on his face:His earth is but sweet leaves that fall and rot.
What was his record of himself, ere he
Went from us ? Here lies one whose name was writIn water: while the chilly shadows flitOf sweet Saint Agnes' Eve; while basil springs,His name, in every humble heart that sings,Shall be a fountain of love, verily.