IMPORTANT
A favourite blog comes to an end
A new blog takes its place

The first post at
now that's what I call art
appeared on 13th April 2014 and the final post will be made on Sunday 30th September 2018

The new blog 
My Virtual Gallery of Favourite Paintings
will begin on Monday 1st September at
myvirtualgalleryoffavouritepaintings.blogspot.com

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At A House In Hampstead Sometime The Dwelling Of John Keats

O poet, come you haunting here

Where streets have stolen up all around,

And never a nightingale pours one

Full-throated sound?

Drawn from your drowse by the Seven famed Hills,

Thought you to find all just the same

Here shining, as in hours of old,

If you but came?

What will you do in your surprise

At seeing that changes wrought in Rome

Are wrought yet more on the misty slope

One time your home?

Will you wake wind-wafts on these stairs?

Swing the doors open noisily?

Show as an umbraged ghost beside

Your ancient tree?

Or will you, softening, the while

You further and yet further look,

Learn that a laggard few would fain

Preserve your nook? . . .

Where the Piazza steps incline,

And catch late light at eventide,

I once stood, in that Rome, and thought,

"'Twas here he died."

I drew to a violet-sprinkled spot,

Where day and night a pyramid keeps

Uplifted its white hand, and said,

"'Tis there he sleeps."

Pleasanter now it is to hold

That here, where sang he, more of him

Remains than where he, tuneless, cold,

Passed to the dim.

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