Aye, amid the forest deep,

In anguish my soul roams forlorn,

Sighing amongst the weeping willows,

With dryads watching beneath the billows;

 

Of scattered memories of the aged walls,

Where lovers repose and dew drops fall,

In unending, yet in sweet agony,

My heart waits for the sound of joy;

 

Ah! Amidst the clouds he comes,

Dispersed by winds, in midday blithe,

And the mortal remains of the ever youth life,

Finished and yet unfinished therein;

 

Ah! The Muses sang, and danced, and wailed,

The Muses who fell in love with him,

The dryads laughed and tree nymphs echoed,

The mermaids swished the drops of love;

 

And aye, the ever ringing litany of bells,

Tolled amid the forest of wonder,

The sprites all gazed and looked in awe,

The gaze of the mortal sight of Keats;

 

Aye! Do the Muses watch ninefold,

Amid the sweetest sight, did nature bless,

The flocking feathers, floating in fancy,

The roses spread their blush of red;

 

And lo! Here Cupid comes with glee,

With his fleet of raining love-sick children,

Arrows of hearts from the burning quiver,

And dryads fell in love again;

 

Behold! Keats sings 'gain and again,

His dreamy eyes flushed with poesy,

And trees that withered, blossomed again,

The flowers rose from the dead;

 

And people sat up on their graves,

With childlike faces of newborn mirth,

And birds which roamed to and fro,

Perched on boughs of high and low;

 

The mortals slept, the ethereals danced,

The goblins, gnomes and fairies apart,

The bees all buzzed and owls did hoot,

In spirits of mirth and gaiety;

 

The trees that danced, the souls that sang,

Rejoiced around the bough of Keats,

With Bacchus pouring his amphora of wine,

The spirits, drank in the midst of night;

 

The crickets called, and the dew did fall,

Upon the chest of earth,

Where Keats; his legs of gold did keep,

With flowers paving his path.

 

And dawn approached with sudden haste,

As Keats went back to his mortal grave,

The blossoming flowers withered again,

The men lay back on their sods again;

 

Aye, amid the forest deep,

In gaiety my soul roams freely,

Sighing amongst the weeping willows,

With dryads watching beneath the billows.