For the Anniversary of John Keats' Death by Sara Teasdale

(February 23, 1821)

At midnight when the moonlit cypress trees / Have woven round his grave a magic shade, / Still weeping the unfinished hymn he made, / There moves fresh Maia like a morning breeze / Blown over jonquil beds when warm rains cease. / And stooping where her poet's head is laid, / Selene weeps while all the tides are stayed / And swaying seas are darkened into peace. / But they who wake the meadows and the tides / Have hearts too kind to bid him wake from sleep / Who murmurs sometimes when his dreams are deep, / Startling the Quiet Land where he abides, / And charming still, sad-eyed Persephone / With visions of the sunny earth and sea.