John Keats

A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing.

The music, yearning like a God in pain.

She hurried at his words, beset with fears,

For there were sleeping dragons all around,

At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears —

Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found. —

In all the house was heard no human sound.

A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door;

The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,

Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar;

And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.

Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;

Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees

Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees.

He play'd an ancient ditty long since mute,

In Provence call'd "La belle dame sans mercy."

The silver snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.

Music's golden tongue

Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.

St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was!

The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;

The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,

And silent was the flock in woolly fold.

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,

In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd.

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,

And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,

As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon;

Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest.

And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon.

As though a rose should shut and be a bud again.