MUSINGS

9 7 R M U S I N G S E L I S A B E T H M U R A W S K I Say Keats had lived a decade more, a score, and stayed in Rome because he loved the wine of old buildings, the drama in a pine at the Farnese, the hot sun’s allure more than Fanny’s soggy England. Say he then sought out Leopardi for his sublime poverty of style, the silvery chime of the Canti drenched in melancholy. Flinched at the sight of a hunchback who wrote like an angel. Thought better of his own physique, short but straight, not a single bone tortured as that frail ‘‘S’’ in a waistcoat. Toasted broom, lively on a precipice, fragrant desert flower thwarting darkness. ...