John Keats

St Agnes' Eve--Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold.

St Agnes' Eve--Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold.

Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.

Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.

Through the dancing poppies stole
A breeze most softly lulling to my soul.

Through the dancing poppies stole
A breeze most softly lulling to my soul.

You have ravished me away by a Power I cannot resist; and yet I
could resist till I saw read more

You have ravished me away by a Power I cannot resist; and yet I
could resist till I saw you; and even since I have seen you I
endeavored often "to reason against the reasons of my Love."

He play'd an ancient ditty long since mute,
In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans merci."

He play'd an ancient ditty long since mute,
In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans merci."