Often of that Last Hour I lie and think;
I see thee, Keats, nearing the Deathway dim—
See Severn in his noiseless hurry, him
Who leaned above thee fading on the brink.
* * * * * * *
What is that wild light through the window chink?
Is it the burning feet of cherubim?
Or is it the white moon on western rim—
Saint Agnes' moon beginning now to sink?
How did Death come—with sounds of waterstir?
With forms of beauty breaking at the lips?
With field pipes and the scent of blowing fir?
Or came it hurrying like a last eclipse,
Sweeping the world away like gossamer,
Blotting the moon, the mountains, and the ships?
