Monday, September 16, 2013


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 wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calmed—see here it is—
I hold it towards you. 

John Keats

Image source.


Sara said...

Chills..... Siiigh... Keats. :)

Willow Cove said...

giant backscratchers.....

K.O. said...

That's an incredible poem. Love it.

Countess VonRauber (Heidi) said...

Chilling =)