A Violet Leaf from Keats' Grave

Out of the sharp salt kiss, Blossom and thorn of grief, Time has no more than this,— A leaf.

Out of the battled years, The glory and the wrong, Time gives for all our tears A song.

Is it of fragrance made, Woven and rhymed of light, The voice that from some shade Silvers the night?

When the last shadows slope And day's own rose is pale,— O love, immortal hope,— His nightingale.