A response to Keats' Sonnet to Byron

Sonnet to Byron John Keats, (October 31, 1795 – February 23, 1821) Attuning still the soul to tenderness, As if soft Pity, with unusual stress, Had touch'd her plaintive lute, and thou, being by, Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer'd them to die. O'ershadowing sorrow doth not make thee less Delightful: thou thy griefs dost dress With a bright halo, shining beamily, As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil, Its sides are ting'd with a resplendent glow, Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail, And like fair veins in sable marble flow; Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale, The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe.

How fancy a man pens words such as these,
          and wise to honor such an one,
      lest selfish pride be his downfall.
When on Death's anniversary
          - one hundred eighty five years past -
              such a sonnet grace my eyes
    and sounded in my restless mind,
          then did I know his beauty.
For with his words didst he reveal
          such a beautiful soul, and reverent.
      For who cannot honor those whose beauty has shined
              so bright?

      Who can claim such fame
          as would o'ershadow that of one
    whose greatness will not likely be forgotten?
      Yet such an honorable move hast
          thusly secured that History would
              treat his words the same,
      lest one who would read his words
        - another hundred eighty five years past -
      not chance to do so,
          and thusly never know the beauty that was lost.
                                - end -

        - February 23, 2006