It was a pretty Flow’r in full blossom!
One that had grown, despite many travails;
When like a bolt, it broke to meet its doom;
Consumed in youthful years by cruel gales.
The Flower made the plant and landscape proud;
By premature demise, left utter gloom;
Its fragrance reached far like Milton’s voice loud;
Could not the Maker find it a Bee-groom?
All born and bred ’midst poverty and strife,
Some Bards on earth sipped gall and poison’d drink;
Some ruthlessly denied a fruitful life,
Were turned to dust before they could well ink.
The Keatsian odes will live for long to tell,
And toll aloud with pride, Poesy’ bell!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.