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 
Is laid. Poor, troubled, lyric ghost, 
Spring never was so fair and dear 
As Beauty makes her seem this year. 

I cannot hold my peace, John Keats, 
I am as helpless in the toil 
Of Spring as any lamb that bleats 
To feel the solid earth recoil 
Beneath his puny legs. Spring beats 
her tocsin call to those who love her, 
And lo! the dogwood petals cover 
Her breast with drifts of snow, and sleek 
White gulls fly screaming to her, and hover 
About her shoulders, and kiss her cheek, 
While white and purple lilacs muster 
A strength that bears them to a cluster 
Of color and odor; for her sake 
All things that slept are now awake. 

And you and I, shall we lie still, 
John Keats, while Beauty summons us? 
Somehow I feel your sensitive will 
Is pulsing up some tremulous 
Sap road of a maple tree, whose leaves 
Grow music as they grow, since your 
Wild voice is in them, a harp that grieves 
For life that opens death's dark door. 
Though dust, your fingers still can push 
The Vision Splendid to a birth, 
Though now they work as grass in the hush 
Of the night on the broad sweet page of the earth. 

'John Keats is dead,' they say, but I 
Who hear your full insistent cry 
In bud and blossom, leaf and tree, 
Know John Keats still writes poetry. 
And while my head is earthward bowed 
To read new life sprung from your shroud, 
Folks seeing me must think it strange 
That merely spring should so derange 
My mind. They do not know that you, 
John Keats, keep revel with me, too.