II 



Ah me, though never an ear for song, thou hast 

 A tireless tooth for songsters: thus of late 

 Thou came St, Death, thou Cat! and leaf st my gate. 

 And, long ere Love could follow, thou hadst passed 

 Within and snatched away, how fast, how fast. 

 My bird — wit, songs, and all — thy richest freight 

 Since that fell time when in some wink of fate 

 Thy yellow claws unsheathed and stretched, and cast 

 Sharp hold on Keats, and dragged him slow away. 

 And harried him with hope and horrid play — 

 Ay, him, the world's best zcood-bird, wise with 

 song — 



Till thou hadst wrought thine own last mortal 

 wrong. 



'Twas wrong/ 'twas wrong/ I care not, 

 wrong 's the word — 



To fnunch our Keats and crunch our mocking- 

 bird. 



