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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 must I dote upon thee—call thee sweet,
  Sweeter by far than Hybla’s honied roses
  When steep’d 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.
Other works by John Keats...



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