From the
beginning until your young death
the terrible beauty was lurking
as for others good luck
or bad. Waiting for you in the dawns
of London, in the casual pages
of a dictionary of mythology,
in the common gifts of the day,
in a face, in a voice, and in the mortal lips
of Fanny Brawne. O Keats! passed,
snatched away, blinded by time,
the high nightingale and the Grecian urn
will be your eternity. O vagabond!
You were the fire. In panic memory,
you are not ashes now. You are glory.
the terrible beauty was lurking
as for others good luck
or bad. Waiting for you in the dawns
of London, in the casual pages
of a dictionary of mythology,
in the common gifts of the day,
in a face, in a voice, and in the mortal lips
of Fanny Brawne. O Keats! passed,
snatched away, blinded by time,
the high nightingale and the Grecian urn
will be your eternity. O vagabond!
You were the fire. In panic memory,
you are not ashes now. You are glory.
