Poetry Tuesday: To Fanny Brawne

John Keats. Not to be confused with “To Fanny” or any of the other similar-titled ones.

The 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 though would wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And though be conscience-calmed–see here it is–
I hold it toward you.

;o)

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