Keats A-Dying

Often of that Last Hour I lie and think;
I see thee, Keats, nearing the Deathway dim--
See Severn in his noiseless hurry, him
Who leaned above thee fading on the brink.

* * * * *

What is that wild light through the window chink?
Is it the burning feet of cherubim?
Or is it the white moon on western rim--
Saint Agnes’ moon beginning now to sink?

How did Death come--with sounds of water-stir?
With forms of beauty breaking at the lips?
With field pipes and the scent of blowing fir?
Or came it hurrying like a last eclipse,
Sweeping the world away like gossamer,
Blotting the moon, the mountains, and the ships?