Forgive my insolence -- I too would soar
Into the Poet’s heaven, Keats, before
My aching limbs are wrapped in the common clay;
I too would feel the sun’s unhindered play

About my rigid form, nor be denied
Icarian pleasures: then let Fate decide
What weeping Daedulus shall hear my splash
In the unrewarding ocean should I flash

Too near the sun! O Keats! Not in thy taste
Of heaven was there cause for that sad waste
Which calls new tears into this listener’s eyes.
The whole world listens when a Poet dies,

And grieves unceasingly when one so young
Has perished with the treasures of his tongue.

Copyright (2006) by Arnold Cantor.
All rights reserved.

[Written in March of 1958.]