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 To John Keats by Amy Lowell 
						Great master!  Boyish, sympathetic man!Whose orbed and ripened genius lightly hung
 From life's slim, twisted tendril and there swung
 In crimson-sphered completeness; guardian
 Of crystal portals through whose openings fan
 The spiced winds which blew when earth was young,
 Scattering wreaths of stars, as Jove once flung
 A golden shower from heights cerulean.
 Crumbled before thy majesty we bow.
 Forget thy empurpled state, thy panoply
 Of greatness, and be merciful and near;
 A youth who trudged the highroad we tread now
 Singing the miles behind him; so may we
 Faint throbbings of thy music overhear.
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