Sonnet To Chatterton


    O Chatterton! how very sad thy fate!
    Dear child of sorrow son of misery!
    How soon the film of death obscur'd that eye,
    Whence Genius mildly falsh'd, and high debate.
    How soon that voice, majestic and elate,
    Melted in dying numbers! Oh! how nigh
    Was night to thy fair morning. Thou didst die
    A half-blown flow'ret which cold blasts amate.
    But this is past: thou art among the stars
    Of highest heaven: to the rolling spheres
    Thou sweetly singest: nought thy hymning mars,
    Above the ingrate world and human fears.
    On earth the good man base detraction bars
    From thy fair name, and waters it with tears.


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Return to the John Keats Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; Sonnet To George Keats: Written In Sickness

It ain't what you don't know that gets you into trouble. It's what you know for sure that just ain't so.