Keats

Oh gold Hyperion, love-lorn Porphyro,
Ill-fated! from thine orb'd fire struck back
Just as the parting clouds began to glow,
And stars, like sparks, to bicker in thy track!
Alas! throw down, throw down, ye mighty dead,
The leaves of oak and asphodel
That ye were weaving for that honour'd head, —
In vain, in vain, your lips would seek a spell
In the few charmed words the poet sung,
To lure him upward in your seats to dwell, —
As vain your grief! O! why should one so young
Sit crown'd midst hoary heads with wreaths divine?
Though to his lips Hymettus' bees had clung,
His lips shall never taste the immortal wine,
Who sought to drain the glowing cup too soon,
For he hath perish'd, and the moon
Hath lost Endymion — but too well
The shaft that pierced him in her arms was sped: —
Into that gulf of dark and nameless dread,
Star-like he fell, but a wide splendour shed
Through its deep night, that kindled as he fell.