'On the Death of Keats'
(By Hugh McFadden)
Confined in space you lay
dying, consumed by life:
From the steps of flowers
the aroma stifled your last breath.
Around your withering frame
a final mist came to your mind,
Enfield's cricket fields far behind.
And the drooping violet lay
on your brow, day-weary.
In an Italian room you died
in Ara Coeli, among Pan, Ceres
and Diana's friend, the hound.
You are not lost, as you knew,
but numbered anong the saints:
Anglican, Catholic. Orthodox and Jew.
Now one with the immortal ashes
you are at rest at last.
Writ in water and in cloud ...
Keats, sensitive, angelic and proud.
[Hugh McFadden]