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TO JOSEPH SEVERN For the Centenary of Keat's Death, 23 February, 1921
We who loved Keats will never long forgetYour memory, Severn: how your hand could traceWith tenderest art his dream-enshrouded face;Could mould that moonlight-haunted brow, where met,As in a fane on some Greek island set,The beauty that transcends all time and place,And the more winsome, earth-begotten graceOf altar-flowers with limpid dew-drops wet.
But what you gave to Keats the man, your friend,Has bound your name to his with dearer ties.You soothed and shared his anguish at the end;You heard the last cry of those passionate lips;You last beheld those wonder-seeing eyes;And watched the soul win free from Time's eclipse.
The FreemanCharles Wharton Stork


THE ODD ONES
I like best those crotchety ones That follow their own wayIn whimsical oblivion Of what the neighbors say.
They grow more rare as they grow old, Their lives show in their faces—In little slants and twisted lines; Like trees in lonely places.
Poetry, A Magazine of VerseRuth Suckow

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