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Piazza di Spagna, 26, 00187 Roma RM, Italy
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In the death mask of John Keats
there appears a resigned peace,
as if poetry had finally let him rest,
his last poem whispered in his last breath.
.
Now I stand in his room beside the Spanish steps,
looking out at life from his room of death,
watching tourists walk by without a thought
that once, here, lay John Keats, poet.
.
And I consider the fate of a nameless grave,
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.