The poetry of earth is never dead,
Even in this, the autumn of our age,
When memory creaks and cracks, and life has fled
Into its caves and holes, before the rage
Of winter falls like frenzy. Still I hear
The soft-voiced songs of swallows in the trees,
The beaver’s splash, and watch a leaping deer
Flee to the forest, full of grace and ease.
The poetry of earth will live forever,
Even when winter silences the joy
That rides the summer wind, for it will never
Die as long as there’s one single boy
To ply the woods, and find in every thing
Some new delight and reason for the spring.
This sonnet takes its first line from one of Keats' poems. Keats and a friend had a little poetic competition to see who could write the best poem using the same first line as a theme. This is my own contribution, although I certainly defer to Keats' much greater genius.
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