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The Eve of St. Agnes, Page 11
by John Keats (February, 1819).

                   XXXI.
    These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand
    On golden dishes and in baskets bright
    Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand
    In the retired quiet of the night,
    Filling the chilly room with perfume light.—
    "And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake!
    "Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite:
    "Open thine eyes, for meet St. Agnes' sake,
"Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache."

                   XXXII.
    Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm
    Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream
    By the dusk curtains:—'twas a midnight charm
    Impossible to melt as iced stream:
    The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam;
    Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies:
    It seem'd he never, never could redeem
    From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes;
So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies.

                   XXXIII.
    Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,—
    Tumultuous,—and, in chords that tenderest be,
    He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute,
    In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans mercy:"
    Close to her ear touching the melody;—
    Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan.
    He cease'd—she panted quick—and suddenly
    Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.


PAGE 11 OF 14.

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