"Whose Name Was Writ In Water..."

Pilgrimages have been made to this city for centuries, and now I am such a pilgrim. When we discover something personal within a painting or a building or a place, it becomes so much more than a painting or a building or a place. A connection is made that needs no pictures or words, for it is something that cannot be captured and understood by others. At least not in the same way. So far this city has presented for me many a pilgrimage of a personal connection. Whether it was biblical or architectural, writings or paintings everything seems to have some meaning here. As a lover of literature, the discovery of John Keats tomb was a catalyst for literary endeavors.

Keats was an English Romantic poet in the early 19th century who died at age 26 from Tuberculosis. He spent his last five months in an apartment next to the Spanish Steps with his close friend Joseph Severn, another literary mind. His story is a depressing one, but is closely tied to Rome. He is buried in the Cimitero Protestante or better know Cimitero Acattolico (non-catholic cemetery) along with Shelley. Laura and I found their graves one Sunday morning. It was quiet, the birds were chirping and he sun cast shadows through the leaves swaying in the breeze. His grave stood simply in a lone corner of the cemetery with the plain inscription "Here lies one whose name was writ in water, Feb. 24 1821." Plagued with criticism his whole career, Keats thought his life left nothing of worth. Little did he know he would be the most regarded poet of the Romantic Movement. The museum dedicated to his memory, located in his old apartment by the Spanish Steps, holds libraries of his works and shows his life story with glimpses of the frequented steps outside the window.

It was great. A small pilgrimage, but meaningful.

A gravestone found in the cemetery held this poem:

There is the center to which all gravitates,

One finds no rest elsewhere than here

There may be other cities that please us for a while,

But Rome alone completely satisfies.

It becomes to all a second native land by predilection

And not by accident of birth alone.

-Longfellow