The Last Journey of Keats

Inedible frozen fruit appears sensual; Wasted flesh dressed as blessed and fresh. Life's cycle is unseasonal and inevitable Now onto Winters unfair descent; To perish like apples stacked in barrels; Left to sour and rot to the most bitter core. To hell with the gourd and the hazel shells The prolonged farewells. Send me away to shore; To Rome where I will walk beyond the gloam. To warmer days that will silent my moan; Where my master has rung out my knell.

Request permission to use this poem

Written by

erica-statham

English

For You?

Explore

Hello PoetryVoting

Write