You feeble few that hold me somewhat more Than all I am; base clay and spittle joined To shape an aimless whim substantial; coined Amiss one idle hour, this heart, though poor,-- O golden host I count upon the ends Of one bare hand, with fingers still to spare,-- Is rich enough for this: to harbor there In opulence its frugal meed of friends. Let neither lose his faith, lest by such loss Each find insufferable his daily cross. And be not less immovable to me, Not less love-leal and staunch, than my heart is. In brief, these fine heroics come to this, My friends: if you are true, I needs must be. _Gods_ I fast and pray and go to church, And put my penny in, But God’s not fooled by such slight tricks, And I’m not saved from sin. I cannot hide from Him the gods That revel in my heart, Nor can I find an easy word To tell them to depart: God’s alabaster turrets gleam Too high for me to win, Unless He turns His face and lets Me bring my own gods in. _To John Keats, Poet. At Spring Time_[A] (_For Carl Van Vechten_) 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. [A] Spring, 1924 _On Going_ (_For Willard Johnson_)