This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest
grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the
icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt
thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou
wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my
veins red life might stream again,
And thou be
conscience-calmed – see here it is --
I hold it towards you.
-- John Keats, 31 October 1795 - 23 February 1821
This poem is so heart-breaking.
Posted by: Laura Orem | February 23, 2010 at 07:21 AM
I love this poem.
Posted by: Eric Bourland | February 23, 2010 at 09:39 AM