Load every rift with ore
Shelley was once advised by Keats
Who might just as well have counseled
Write better

I have vowed never again to sully these pages
With the sour notes of self-contempt
But surely I might bemoan the torment
That one calls down who tempts the snare of verse

I could never weave the April shroud
Nor frame the dome of many-colour’d glass
You can’t do what’s been done before anyway
And Keats chastise Shelley for the love of God

And perhaps you will riposte
That Keats found no fault
But only offered improvement
To a fellow Titan

Destined alike to die in youth
Though Shelley made it to thirty
I can’t find an exception to the rule
You’ve got to make it when you’re young

But Keats never wrote in childhood
And his earliest attempts fell short of brilliance
They say he knew he was dying
I’d make that sacrifice

Shelley the wild aristocrat
Keats the quiet commoner
Both they say liked to raise a glass
Both could write a Spenserian

And nobody ever described their lot as happy
And I know I shouldn’t envy them
And what healthy mind ever pursued together
Love Poesy and Ambition