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Poetry of Amy Lowell
A Dome of Many-coloured Glass

To John Keats

Great master!  Boyish, sympathetic man!
 Whose orbed and ripened genius lightly hung
 From life's slim, twisted tendril and there swung
In crimson-sphered completeness; guardian
Of crystal portals through whose openings fan
 The spiced winds which blew when earth was young,
 Scattering wreaths of stars, as Jove once flung
A golden shower from heights cerulean.
 Crumbled before thy majesty we bow.
  Forget thy empurpled state, thy panoply
Of greatness, and be merciful and near;
 A youth who trudged the highroad we tread now
  Singing the miles behind him; so may we
Faint throbbings of thy music overhear.