Ah Keats, thou hast me by a single year,
And as the sand-grains trickle through my fingers
A sense of thee inevitably lingers
As though, in age embodied, thou wert near.
Yet if thou wert, as I imagine, here,
Seeing my mind which constantly malingers,
Failing thy hand-stitch, though equipped with Singers,
Thou wouldst not recognize in me a peer.
Nor am I, for in such a little space
As I have had, or but a moment more,
Thou didst produce what time cannot erase,
Filling the seas beyond the sight of shore,
That I, from my usurpéd pride of place
Can still not see the ebbing of thy store.
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