How Far Into The Failing Mists, The Poet Keats Was Bound To Go Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

how far into the failing mists

the poet Keats was bound to go

only autumnal trees would know

the frost upon the vines

the branching of the moonlit lanes

the faltering rose among the eglantine

a road of gold and time too brief

and words had lost their sweetest sweet

and words had lost.

much more, had grief

since grief had lost her voice.

goodbye to you we whisper still

still mists will fail

it's so uphill

and knights lapse home

and all their works seem made of foam

but in the heart, retained.

poor phoenix badly tended here

over conscious of the sere

to melancholy not immune

we cherish cherish every rune

you left for us; we weep for Adonis

so Shelley cried

not far from demise, himself.

mary angela douglas 28 february 2023