On Keats

A 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 St. Agnes' Eve, while basil springs --
His name, in every humble heart that sings,
Shall be a fountain of love, verily.