Brighter the flowers still grow on him who said,
'A thing of beauty is a joy for ever,'
From out the past he speaks, the gentle giver
Of a mute prophecy, which on his head
Lights with an immortality that clips
Away the earthly pathway that he trod,
And shrines him a divinity, a god,
A spirit breathing from ethereal lips
The eloquence that we may never hear
If we can enter not into the feeling
That gave it birth, and hear the music stealing
Like incense upward to that timeless sphere,
Where something surer than an echo cries—
'Death is befool'd, the poet never dies.'