When I have fears that I am not John Keats
And that my fingers type my teeming brain
Sufficiently, so that the ready grain
Falls ere the scythe its frail stalk ever meets;
When I am worried that my mind retreats
Before its task, and that it will refrain
From higher work, or break beneath the strain
Of trying to achieve such mighty feats,
I think again of being twenty-five,
Having such glory in the past, and yet
No future; and I wonder how it changed
His poetry. I know I am alive,
And grateful for the fact; yet still I let
Fall tears for him. How wide his genius ranged!
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