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Isabella; or, The Pot of Basil, Page 11
by John Keats (February—April, 1818).

The Spirit mourn'd "Adieu!"—dissolv'd, and left
    The atom darkness in a slow turmoil;
As when of healthful midnight sleep bereft,
    Thinking on rugged hours and fruitless toil,
We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft,
    And see the spangly gloom froth up and boil:
It made sad Isabella's eyelids ache,
And in the dawn she started up awake;

"Ha! ha!" said she, "I knew not this hard life,
    "I thought the worst was simple misery;
"I thought some Fate with pleasure or with strife
    "Portion'd us—happy days, or else to die;
"But there is crime—a brother's bloody knife!
    "Sweet Spirit, thou hast school'd my infancy:
"I'll visit thee for this, and kiss thine eyes,
"And greet thee morn and even in the skies."

When the full morning came, she had devised
    How she might secret to the forest hie;
How she might find the clay, so dearly prized,
    And sing to it one latest lullaby;
How her short absence might be unsurmised,
    While she the inmost of the dream would try,
Resolv'd, she took with her an aged nurse,
And went into that dismal forest-hearse.

See, as they creep along the river side,
    How she doth whisper to that aged Dame,
And, after looking round the champaign wide,
    Shows her a knife.—"What feverous hectic flame
"Burns in thee, child?—What good can thee betide,
    "That thou shouldst smile again?"—The evening came,
And they had found Lorenzo's earthy bed;
The flint was there, the berries at his head.


PAGE 11 OF 16.

• • • • •Dearest Romantic, to read the twelfth page of Isabella; or, The Pot of Basil,
kindly click on the link at the very bottom of this page.
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• • • •To read poems by Other Horrible Workers (poets
in today's day and age), kindly click HERE.
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