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.

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; read more

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?

The poppies hung
Dew-dabbed on their stalks.

The poppies hung
Dew-dabbed on their stalks.

Dry your eyes--O dry your eyes,
For I was taught in Paradise
To ease my breast of read more

Dry your eyes--O dry your eyes,
For I was taught in Paradise
To ease my breast of melodies.

And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon.

And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon.