Time's sea hath been five years at its slow ebb, Long hours have to and fro let creep the sand, Since I was tangled in thy beauty's web, And snared by the ungloving of thine hand. And yet I never look on midnight sky, But I behold thine eyes' well memory'd light; I cannot look upon the rose's dye, But to thy cheek my soul doth take its flight. I cannot look on any budding flower, But my fond ear, in fancy at thy lips And hearkening for a love-sound, doth devour Its sweets in the wrong sense: Thou dost eclipse Every delight with sweet remembering, And grief unto my darling joys dost bring.
Return to the John Keats Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; Sonnet: To A Young Lady Who Sent Me A Laurel Crown