There is a white wood house near Hampstead Heath br in whose garden the nightingale still sings. br Though Keats is dead, the bird who sang of death br returns with melodies, on easeful wings. br br A lock of hair the poet's love received br remains in the room where first it was shorn; br An heirloom, its history half-believed, br its strands now faded and its ribbon worn. br br On polished floors, through squares of summer sun br I felt his footsteps move, as if the elf br - deceiving elf, he called her - had not done br with making mischief to amuse herself. br br I saw him clip that tousled lock of hair, br and though he did not offer it to me, br I felt that I was privileged, standing there, br and took his gesture for my legacy.