I cannot hold my peace, John Keats;
\nThere never was a spring like this;
\nIt is an echo, that repeats
\nMy last year’s song and next year’s bliss.
\nI know, in spite of all men say
\nOf Beauty, you have felt her most.
\nYea, even in your grave her way
\nIs laid. Poor, troubled, lyric ghost,
\nSpring never was so fair and dear
\nAs Beauty makes her seem this year.
\nI cannot hold my peace, John Keats,
\nI am as helpless in the toil
\nOf Spring as any lamb that bleats
\nTo feel the solid earth recoil
\nBeneath his puny legs. Spring beats
\nher tocsin call to those who love her,
\nAnd lo! the dogwood petals cover
\nHer breast with drifts of snow, and sleek
\nWhite gulls fly screaming to her, and hover
\nAbout her shoulders, and kiss her cheek,
\nWhile white and purple lilacs muster
\nA strength that bears them to a cluster
\nOf color and odor; for her sake
\nAll things that slept are now awake.<\/p>\n
And you and I, shall we lie still,
\nJohn Keats, while Beauty summons us?
\nSomehow I feel your sensitive will
\nIs pulsing up some tremulous
\nSap road of a maple tree, whose leaves
\nGrow music as they grow, since your
\nWild voice is in them, a harp that grieves
\nFor life that opens death’s dark door.
\nThough dust, your fingers still can push
\nThe Vision Splendid to a birth,
\nThough now they work as grass in the hush
\nOf the night on the broad sweet page of the earth.<\/p>\n
“John Keats is dead,” they say, but I
\nWho hear your full insistent cry
\nIn bud and blossom, leaf and tree,
\nKnow John Keats still writes poetry.
\nAnd while my head is earthward bowed
\nTo read new life sprung from your shroud,
\nFolks seeing me must think it strange
\nThat merely spring should so derange
\nMy mind. They do not know that you,
\nJohn Keats, keep revel with me, too.
\n(“To John Keats, Poet, At Springtime” is reprinted from “Color,” by Countee Cullen. Copyright 1925 by Harper Bros.; copyright renewed 1953 by Ida M. Cullen.)<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
by Countee Cullen I cannot hold my peace, John Keats; There never was a spring like this; It is an echo, that repeats My last year’s song and next year’s bliss. I know, in spite of all men say Of Beauty, you have felt her most. Yea, even in your grave her way Is laid. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/englishhistory.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/182"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/englishhistory.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/englishhistory.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/englishhistory.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/englishhistory.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=182"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/englishhistory.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/182\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/englishhistory.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=182"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/englishhistory.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=182"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/englishhistory.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=182"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}