Nightingale to
Keats
Thou brother’s death and thy wound
Compose an Ode to lament and repose.
Yet, thy big heart praises my throat
And holds my fate:
As a sweet minstrel.
Pray thee to the Lord to store my
Eternity to make more chirp.
But, not to remove my ache,
Not of my broken nest,
Not even my inanition.
Astonished may you be, but the fact;
On the same day, thy brother became pale
And my beloved was hunted simultaneous
Don’t thee know, but the bullet
And the hunting lust bereaved me of my love
And the life of my young beloved.
Cry thee for thy younger
And me for my prized.
Not the wine deceive thee but thy Lord,
Snatched those young hearts and cheat us.
Rather cheated me more than thee,
By giving me the sweetest voice,
Even while I sing or cry.
My tone befools thee thus and makes
You discover me a singer best.
O, my laureate! Thy pangs
May be hoarded as an ode.
You can name my tears
And sorrows as a sweetest note.
But ‘tis my request to thee
Not eternize me and not utter of it.
(Published in
Poetcrit 27.2 (July 2014): 129)