The poem of the week, this week, (incase you missed it) is the sixth stanza of Keat's 'Ode to a Nightingale'
"Darkling i listen and for many a time
I have been half in love with easful death
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme
To take into the air my quiet breath
And now more than ever seems it rich to die
To cease upon the midnight with no pain
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroud
In such esctacy!
Still wilt thou sing and i have ears in vain
To thy high requiem become a sod"
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