JOHN KEATS

Sonnet I, To


Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs
    Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell
    Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart, so well
Would passion arm me for the enterprise,
But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies,
    No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell;
    I am no happy shepherd of the dell
Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes.
Yet I must dote upon thee-call thee sweet,
    Sweeter by far than Hybla's honeyed roses
      When steeped in dew rich to intoxication.
Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet,
    And when the moon her pallid face discloses
      I'll gather some by spells and incantation.