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John Keats

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But strength alone though of the Muses born
Is like a fallen angel: trees uptorn,
Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres
Delight it; for it feeds upon the burrs,
And thorns of life; forgetting the great end
Of poesy, that it should be a friend
To sooth the cares, and lift the thoughts of man.
--
"Sleep and Poetry", st. 11

 
John Keats

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Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
Fallen from his high estate,
And welt'ring in his blood;
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By those his former bounty fed,
On the bare earth exposed he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes.

 
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A cheerful life is what the Muses love,
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Nature repairs her ravages, but not all. The uptorn trees are not rooted again; the parted hills are left scarred; if there is a new growth, the trees are not the same as the old, and the hills underneath their green vesture bear the marks of the past rending. To the eyes that have dwelt on the past, there is no thorough repair.

 
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Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

 
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