This poem steals the structure, all the rhymes, and a few lines from a famous poem by John Keats. In some ways it may be a dialogue. I would be very grateful for any criticisms, comments, critiques, or thoughts.
(In receipt of a Grecian Urn from Christie's as a token of a lady's favour)
Thou muse of parcels, font of the express,
O still unravished bride of quietness!
Anticipation is the balm of time,
That soothes the marching feet until the rhyme;
So leaf-fringed legends haunt about thy shape:
Thus gifts from wrappers struggle to escape!
In vain, the parcel and the present both,
The self-same sweet suspense to spin are loth,
For only dying woods of Arcady
Fell poets down in antique ecstasy.
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