Outside a mulberry tree hangs to the ground
but in my thoughts his odes do jump around,
inside where my feet creak on the floor
he wrote the poems that people do nowadays adore
while the attacks on him did fiercely sound
and he was caught by the power of destiny
while critics did him only in disdain see
while in the end with tuberculosis he did no cure found
but in my thoughts his odes do jump around.
[Poet's note:I do here refer to the "Quarterly Review" and "Blackwood's Magazine" where destructive criticism was published about Hunt's literary circle (of which Keats was a member)and on the poem Endymion was said that it is absolute nonsense and that Keats should stop writing poetry.]
© Gert Strydom
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem