John Keats: My brothers

Here’s a poem by John Keats entitled To My Brothers:

Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals,

And their faint cracklings o’er our silence creep

Like whispers of the household gods that keep

A gentle empire o’er fraternal souls

And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles,

Your eyes are fix’d, as in poetic sleep,

Upon the lore so voluble and deep,

That aye at fall of night our care condoles

This is your birth-day Tom, and I rejoice

That thus it passes smoothly, quietly

Many such eves of gently whisp’ring noise

May we together pass, and calmly try

What are this world’s true joys,—ere the great voice,

From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly.