Lyrics / by John B. Tabb [electronic text]

AT KEATS'S GRAVE.

"I FEEL the flowers growing over me." Prophetic thought! Behold, no cypress gloom Portrays in dim memorial the doom That quenched the ray of starlike destiny! E'en death itself deals tenderly with thee: For here, the livelong year, the violets bloom And swing their fragrant censers till the tomb Forgets the legend of mortality. Nay: while the pilgrim periods of time Alternate song and holy requiem sing, As through the circling centuries sublime They scatter frost, or genial sunshine bring, With gathered sweets of every varying clime They weave around thee one perpetual Spring.