Saint Nobody

Keats’ Eyelashes

93 Keats’ Eyelashes Art thou so pale, who wast so bland And merry in our meadows? How is this? —John Keats, Endymion His life mask has been lovingly preserved for pilgrims to his Hampstead home. Lips poised beneath the glass as if for one last kiss, the face appears about to breathe or speak. But strangest are the eyelashes—too long, almost too fragile to be trapped in plaster. Dead boy, dead doctor, all too much aware his time was short. Had the dread cough begun when he reclined for Haydon’s layering? The oil first, then plaster, gently poured, then slowly pressing down into the pan, breathing through nostril-straws. In a scant four years another mask was made, breath-drained. Severn, who’d sketched the deathbed, saw to that. He’d also seen the blood his young friend spat when he coughed: my death warrant. The eyes lost their famous spark, the wide and labile mouth went slack. Why keep this face indoors? In memory, his young white face dissolves into your face, pale from tea and smoking. We wait at Holborn for the day’s first train. Lashes, absurdly long, hide pale gray eyes I can’t quite see into. The train arrives. Morning takes its daily walk through London. ...