Chapter II
Ah me, though never an ear for song, thou hastA tireless tooth for songsters: thus of lateThou camest, Death, thou Cat! and leap’st my gate,And, long ere Love could follow, thou hadst passedWithin and snatched away, how fast, how fast,My bird—wit, songs, and all—thy richest freightSince that fell time when in some wink of fateThy yellow claws unsheathed and stretched, and castSharp hold on Keats, and dragged him slow away,And harried him with hope and horrid play—Ay, him, the world’s best wood-bird, wise with song—Till thou hadst wrought thine own last mortal wrong.’Twas wrong! ’twas wrong! I care not, WRONG’s the word—To munch our Keats and crunch our mocking-bird.