Written on the Last Page of a Book of Keats’s Poems

 

A golden discourse and message bright,
Then broken off and left, a jagged edge;
Nothing but darkness, gone the heavenly light,
Broken the vows and unfulfilled the pledge.
The goblet whence we drink the blessed wine
Is rudely dashed away from eager lips,
When scarcely have we tasted the divine
And we must grieve at premature eclipse.
Gone are the days happy in meadows green,
Beside the stream, reclining on the sod;
Gone is the flower when we have barely seen,
Called back unto its Maker and its God!
O Death, that thou could’st rosy youth invade
And hush the music when it’s scarce been played!