Sonnet: John Keats

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!

6-10-2000

by Dr. A.Celestine Raj Manohar M.D.,

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