Outside our window, Bernini’s fountain played.
At night it often soothed John off to sleep.
My friend was frail and fragile, facing death,
without the comforts that Believer’s seek.

The poet had grown fearful of the dark,
so I kept candles burning through til dawn.
By then he was too weak to write or read,
but took some pleasure in a Robin’s song.

He grew anemic, and Rome’s winter chill
had penetrated into flesh and bone.
His love was far away, dear ***** Brawne.
By Love and duty, I tended him alone.

He coughed up blood, and by its color knew
the hour of his death was growing near.
He summoned me to prop him up in bed
The pain had mostly past despite my fears.

For seven hours thus we both remained,
beyond the help of Doctor, Clerk, or Priest.
There beside the Spanish steps he lingered,
It was nearly midnight when his breathing ceased.

In the Protestant graveyard you will find
all that was mortal of my Poet friend.
“Here lies one whose name was writ on water.”
I disagree, but I carved there what he said.