there appears a resigned peace,
as if poetry had finally let him rest,
his last poem whispered in his last breath.
looking out at life from his room of death,
watching tourists walk by without a thought
that once, here, lay John Keats, poet.
or worse, a life of wasted days,
but what a beautiful death if you can say
you did what you needed to do,
and said what you needed to say.