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Ode to Fanny
by John Keats (Winter, 1819).

Physician Nature! let my spirit blood!
    O ease my heart of verse and let me rest;
Throw me upon thy Tripod, till the flood
    Of stifling numbers ebbs from my full breast.
A theme! a theme! great nature! give a theme;
             Let me begin my dream.
I come—I see thee, as thou standest there,
Beckon me not into the wintry air.

Ah! dearest love, sweet home of all my fears,
    And hopes, and joys, and panting miseries,—
To-night, if I may guess, thy beauty wears
             A smile of such delight,
             As brilliant and as bright,
    As when with ravished, aching, vassal eyes,
             Lost in soft amaze,
             I gaze, I gaze!

Who now, with greedy looks, eats up my feast?
    What stare outfaces now my silver moon!
Ah! keep that hand unravished at the least;
             Let, let, the amorous burn—
             But, pr'ythee, do not turn
    The current of your heart from me so soon,
             O! save, in charity,
             The quickest pulse for me.

Save it for me, sweet love! though music breathe
    Voluptuous visions into the warm air,
Though swimming through the dance's dangerous wreath;
             Be like an April day,
             Smiling and cold and gay,
    A temperate lilly, temperate as fair;
             Then, Heaven! there will be
             A warmer June for me.

Why this—you'll say, my Fanny! is not true:
    Put your soft hand upon your snowy side,
Where the heart beats: confess—'tis nothing new—
             Must not a woman be
             A feather on the sea,
    Sway'd to and fro by every wind and tide?
             Of as uncertain speed
             As blow-ball from the mead?

I know it—and to know it is despair
    To one who loves you as I love, sweet Fanny!
Whose heart goes fluttering for you every where,
             Nor, when away you roam,
             Dare keep its wretched home,
    Love, love alone, his pains severe and many:
             Then, loveliest! keep me free,
             From torturing jealousy.

Ah! if you prize my subdu'd soul above
    The poor, the fading, brief pride of an hour;
Let none profane my Holy See of love,
             Or with a rude hand break
             The sacramental cake:
    Let none else touch the just new-budded flower;
             If not—may my eyes close,
             Love! on their lost repose.

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