John Keats (1795–1821)

I CRY your mercy—pity—love!—aye, love!

Merciful love that tantalises not,

One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love,

Unmask’d, and being seen—without a blot!

O! let me have thee whole,—all—all—be mine!

That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest

Of love, your kiss,—those hands, those eyes divine,

That warm, white, lucent, million-pleasured breast,—

Yourself—your soul—in pity give me all,

Withhold no atom’s atom or I die,

Or living on perhaps, your wretchèd thrall,

Forget, in the mist of idle misery,

Life’s purposes,—the palate of my mind

Losing its gust, and my ambition blind!