Melancholy's lack of zest

Was written all over his palimpsest:

To die at twenty-five to some

Will hardly seem to have been alive.

But Johnny Keats lived and loved

for poetry, music, kisses, tears

Eschewing self-pity-suicide

He tried his best to stay alive

With medicine and Fanny's tears 

..........

No crossing of the river Lethe, as yet,

Undefeated by TB, at least temporarily,

No seeking out of empty-headed

Oblivion either. He preferred to breathe,

To feel, to see, to hear, to think, to write.

..........

 

He did not measure out his life in years

But rose to the attainment of that rarest

Of rare orchids, love. What will survive of us.

...... 

Devote your time to love and friendship

To all the passingness of life. Johnny

Keats, the poet-physician, balanced

His surface understanding of anatomy

With the hidden mysteries of the body 

And soul. His alchemical intuitions since 

Borne out by quantum physics:

Time is such a  slippery beast, for footloose Cavaliers,

And life is so much more

Than the passing of the years.