On Keats

Christina Georgina Rossetti

A garden in a garden: a green spot
  Where all is green: most fitting slumber-place
  For the strong man grown weary of a race
Soon over. Unto him a goodly lot
Hath fallen in fertile ground; there thorns are not,
  But his own daisies: silence, full of grace,
  Surely hath shed a quiet on his face:
His earth is but sweet leaves that fall and rot.
What was his record of himself, ere he
  Went from us ? Here lies one whose name was writ
  In water: while the chilly shadows flit
    Of sweet Saint Agnes’ Eve; while basil springs,
    His name, in every humble heart that sings,
Shall be a fountain of love, verily.

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