Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things And battles long ago. I say a third time that I have to make somebody understand this thing. Let us try it again now, just once again. Let us suppose that there had not been any little independence or any pension. Who can think what it would have meant to us? Who can think what it would mean never to have read Ring out, wild bells, or When the war-drum throbs no longer, or Crossing the bar. Never to have read Blow, bugle, blow! Never to have read My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure! * * * * * Oh, think not of what these things are to _you_--think of what they are to _men_! How many railroads would pay for them?--one, do you think? The work of how many libraries have they done, do you think? _How much money do you think could be raised in the world to-day to save them?_ * * * * * _And not one cent to create them!_ * * * * * --I have saved the chief thing to the last. I have spoken of the six fortunate ones who had money; I have not spoken of thee, oh my poor, poor Keats! The hours that I have hungered with thee, the hours that I have wept with thee, oh thou _my_ poet, oh thou _my_ Keats! Oh thou most wretched, most miserable of poets, oh thou most beautiful, most exquisite, most unthinkable of poets! Most inspired poet of England, since Milton died!--It was given to others to be beautiful, it was given to thee alone to be perfect! It was given to thee to be ecstasy incarnate, to be melody too sweet to hear! It was given to thee, alone of all poets, to achieve by mere _language_ a rapture that thrills the soul like the sound of an organ. And they mocked thee, they spit upon thee, they cursed thee, oh my poor, poor Keats! Thou, the hostler's son--thou, the apothecary's clerk! Thou, sick and starved and helpless--thou, dying of disease and neglect and despair: Oh for a draft of vintage! That hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvèd earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! Oh for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stainèd mouth; That I might drink and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim! “Go back to thy gallipots, Mr. Keats!” Think not of Gifford--poor fool--but think of yourself, oh world! Think what you lost in that man! You killed him, yes, you trampled him, and you throttled him! And he was only twenty-five! And he had never finished _Hyperion_--because he had not the heart! * * * * * --Come, now, all you who love books, come quickly, and let us take up a subscription, _that we may save for men the rest of Hyperion_!