XXVII
by John Keats
· (no date)
Published 01/07/1880
Part of Isabella, or the Pot of Basil
So the two brothers and their murder'd man
Rode past fair Florence, to where Arno's stream
Gurgles through straighten'd banks, and still doth fan
Itself with dancing bulrush, and the bream
Keeps head against the freshets. Sick and wan
The brothers' faces in the ford did seem,
Lorenzo's flush with love.—They pass'd the water
Into a forest quiet for the slaughter.