This Living Hand


    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.


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Return to the John Keats Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; To Ailsa Rock

It ain't what you don't know that gets you into trouble. It's what you know for sure that just ain't so.