There is a white wood house near Hampstead Heath
in whose garden the nightingale still sings.
Though Keats is dead, the bird who sang of death
returns with melodies, on easeful wings.

A lock of hair the poet's love received
remains in the room where first it was shorn;
An heirloom, its history half-believed,
its strands now faded and its ribbon worn.

On polished floors, through squares of summer sun
I felt his footsteps move, as if the elf
- deceiving elf, he called her - had not done
with making mischief to amuse herself.

I saw him clip that tousled lock of hair,
and though he did not offer it to me,
I felt that I was privileged, standing there,
and took his gesture for my legacy.