see
The face of death, no goddess asked for thee,
My Keats! But when the crimson blood-drop
stained
Thy pillow, thou didst read the fate ordained,--
Brief life, wild love, a flight of poesy!
And then,--a shadow fell on Italy:
Thy star went down before its brightness waned.

Yet thou hast won the gift Tithonus missed:
Never to feel the pain of growing old,
Nor lose the blissful sight of beauty's truth,
But with the ardent lips that music kissed
To breathe thy song, and, ere thy heart grew
cold,
Become the Poet of Immortal Youth.

SHELLEY

Knight-errant of the Never-ending
Quest,
And Minstrel of the Unfulfilled Desire;
For ever tuning thy frail earthly lyre
To some unearthly music, and possessed
With painful passionate longing to invest
The golden dream of Love's immortal fire
In mortal robes of beautiful attire,
And fold perfection to thy throbbing breast!

What wonder, Shelley, if the restless wave