For John Keats (Final Version) Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

perhaps he dreamed up his poems
that they should breathe past his Maytime flourishing
the brides of silence
unheard melodies he mused are sweeter
who could say that now
when everyone wants to be heard
but then he was a dreamer even for the times he lived in
and denizen of no socially trumpeting streets
inhabiting realms of gold
then coughing up blood
in the last retreats, so young! years condensed
beyond mead
who could match his effulgence
the brede work of exquisite workmanship
his melancholy exorbitance, bruised chivalries.
why wouldn't the nightingale want to live
among his branches forever
to sing effortlessly there

mary angela douglas 31 october 2021; 13 april 2023