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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=359123" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To John Keats, Poet, At Spring Time</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I cannot hold my peace, John Keats; <br>There never was a spring like this; <br>It is an echo, that repeats <br>My last year's song and next year's bliss. <br>I know, in spite of all men say <br>Of Beauty, you have felt her most. <br>Yea, even in your grave her way <br>Is laid. Poor, troubled, lyric ghost, <br>Spring never was so fair and dear <br>As Beauty makes her seem this year. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I cannot hold my peace, John Keats, <br>I am as helpless in the toil <br>Of Spring as any lamb that bleats <br>To feel the solid earth recoil <br>Beneath his puny legs. Spring beats <br>her tocsin call to those who love her, <br>And lo! the dogwood petals cover <br>Her breast with drifts of snow, and sleek <br>White gulls fly screaming to her, and hover <br>About her shoulders, and kiss her cheek, <br>While white and purple lilacs muster <br>A strength that bears them to a cluster <br>Of color and odor; for her sake <br>All things that slept are now awake. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And you and I, shall we lie still, <br>John Keats, while Beauty summons us? <br>Somehow I feel your sensitive will <br>Is pulsing up some tremulous <br>Sap road of a maple tree, whose leaves <br>Grow music as they grow, since your <br>Wild voice is in them, a harp that grieves <br>For life that opens death's dark door. <br>Though dust, your fingers still can push <br>The Vision Splendid to a birth, <br>Though now they work as grass in the hush <br>Of the night on the broad sweet page of the earth. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'John Keats is dead,' they say, but I <br>Who hear your full insistent cry <br>In bud and blossom, leaf and tree, <br>Know John Keats still writes poetry. <br>And while my head is earthward bowed <br>To read new life sprung from your shroud, <br>Folks seeing me must think it strange <br>That merely spring should so derange <br>My mind. They do not know that you, <br>John Keats, keep revel with me, too.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Countee+Cullen">Countee Cullen</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=359123" data-title="To John Keats, Poet, At Spring Time de Countee Cullen" data-description="I cannot hold my peace, John Keats; 
There never was a spring like this; 
It is an echo, that repeats 
My last year's song and next year's bliss. 
I know, in spite of all men say 
Of Beauty, you have felt her most. 
Yea, even in your grave her way..."></div>
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