Hail, Hyperion!

Tomorrow is the anniversary of English poet John Keats's death. He would've been two hundred and eleven had he not succumbed to tuberculosis at age twenty-five. But, then again, he's immortal, so no talk about names being writ on water or death as anything but a virtual state for those deserving more. Whenever I'm in London I make a pilgrimage to his residence in Hampstead. Not sure if I believe in auras and emanations, but that space has an uncanny meditative quality. One gets dizzy with reverie and, no, that's not the British Romantic in me.
Since unheard melodies are sweeter, sing no elegy for this young man. Just read his poems and fall in love while at the cusp of extinction. cheerio! martin scriblerus