At midnight, when the moonlit cypress trees <br />Have woven round his grave a magic shade, <br />Still weeping the unfinished hymn he made, <br />There moves fresh Maia, like a morning breeze <br />Blown over jonquil beds when warm rains cease. <br />And stooping where her poet's head is laid, <br />Selene weeps, while all the tides are stayed, <br />And swaying seas are darkened into peace. <br />But they who wake the meadows and the tides <br />Have hearts too kind to bid him wake from sleep, <br />Who murmurs sometimes when his dreams are deep, <br />Startling the Quiet Land where he abides, <br />And charming still sad-eyed Persephone <br />With visions of the sunny earth and sea.<br /><br />Sara Teasdale<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/for-the-anniversary-of-john-keats-death/
