Caught between each phrase and rhyme,
incarnate fairies dance, immortal in time.
The poetry which gave them their birth
sustains itself through the trials of Earth.
They testify to the deepest of thoughts,
while most of men’s creations decay and rot.

The gentle Madeline shall always be fair,
to the eager eyes Porphyro casts in deep stare.

The Grecian Urn’s designs, forever sublime.
Time’s hand may press smooth all other ancient etching,
but the Urn is now immortal, caught forever in writing.

The knights-at-arms are forever held at bay
by the perogative of Le Belle Dame Sans Merci.
The nightingale’s song will resonate true
for centuries to come, ages through and through.

Chapman’s Homer, we have read,
even though our eyes never set upon it
because the gleam of one’s teeming brain
will forever bring our hearts into his ken.

Keats stands immortal,
burning brightly in my mind!
His deepest emotions have become mine.
He is his creations, his blood and flesh on the page.
His gentle poems, exceed the tomes
of any other sage.

And maybe,
vicariously,
Keats has become the key
to my own immortality.
May his inspired spirit remain within
my deepest thoughts and my every whim.