Piggy-backing off of last weeks poem from Keats, here is a sonnet from WL Grayson on Keats.
The Ache of Beauty
O Keats, your Grecian urn destroys my light
By which, with futile reach, I strive to rend
The veil between imagination’s might
And feeble reason’s skill, with words to mend.
Despair! Despair! Perfection pierce my heart.
The ache of beauty, diamond sharp, does bless
The air with fragrance sweet and won’t depart,
But plagues unworthy poet’s muddled mess.
But Keats, O perfect scribe, Am I not you?
The beauty forged in rhyme and measured love,
Is past your grasp. The happy beauty true:
That One alone is Perfect Word above.
Compose, my soul, your silent songs' refrain
And Keats' soft pipes begin to play again.
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