Archaic and Immortal
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
Some words are mortal, dead in Tuesdays, not
For use; yet other words, though nearly dead,
Survive in poetry. These wraiths are hot
Because our hearts refuse to fill with dread
Alone. They know that other organs fail
To hold these holy words and so our hearts
Enwrap them like the wounded Jesus, frail,
But waiting for new resurrection starts.
Conservative in love song anthems, terms
Like these insist on living for that day
When passion needs them. Fervor then confirms
The breaking of their tomb, what lovers say.
Though nearly dead these words like “Woe” remain
In poets’ souls, behind their eyes…blood’s stain.
John Keats
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