POEM
"This living hand, now warm and capable"
This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calm’d–see here it is–
I hold it towards you.
John Keats (1795-1821) was born in London, where he was raised by a merchant after both his parents . . . MORE »
More Poems by John Keats
La Belle Dame sans Merci: A Ballad
Bright Star, Would I were Steadfast as Thou Art
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