Keats
o gold Hyperion, love-lorn Porphyro,
  Ill-fated! from thine orbëd fire struck back
Just as the parting clouds began to glow,
  And stars, like sparks, to bicker in thy track!
Alas! throw down, throw down, ye mighty dead,
  The leaves of oak and asphodel
That ye were weaving for that honored head,—
  In vain, in vain, your...