A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass

To John Keats

          Great master!  Boyish, sympathetic man!
           Whose orbed and ripened genius lightly hung
           From life's slim, twisted tendril and there swung
          In crimson-sphered completeness; guardian
          Of crystal portals through whose openings fan
           The spiced winds which blew when earth was young,
           Scattering wreaths of stars, as Jove once flung
          A golden shower from heights cerulean.
           Crumbled before thy majesty we bow.
            Forget thy empurpled state, thy panoply
          Of greatness, and be merciful and near;
           A youth who trudged the highroad we tread now
            Singing the miles behind him; so may we
          Faint throbbings of thy music overhear.