To A Poet That Died Young

Minstrel, what have you to do              With this man that, after you,              Sharing not your happy fate,              Sat as England's Laureate?              Vainly, in these iron days,              Strives the poet in your praise,              Minstrel, by whose singing side              Beauty walked, until you died.              Still, though none should hark again,              Drones the blue-fly in the pane,              Thickly crusts the blackest moss,              Blows the rose its musk across,              Floats the boat that is forgot              None the less to Camelot.              Many a bard's untimely death              Lends unto his verses breath;              Here's a song was never sung:              Growing old is dying young.              Minstrel, what is this to you:              That a man you never knew,              When your grave was far and green,              Sat and gossipped with a queen?              Thalia knows how rare a thing              Is it, to grow old and sing;              When a brown and tepid tide              Closes in on every side.              Who shall say if Shelley's gold              Had withstood it to grow old?