John Keats (1795–1821). The Poetical Works of John Keats. 1884.

15. To * * * * * *

HAD I a man’s fair form, then might my sighs

Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell

Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well

Would passion arm me for the enterprize:

But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;

No cuirass glistens on my bosom’s swell;

I am no happy shepherd of the dell

Whose lips have trembled with a maiden’s eyes.

Yet must I doat upon thee,—call thee sweet,

Sweeter by far than Hybla’s honied roses

When steep’d in dew rich to intoxication.

Ah! I will taste that dew, for me ’tis meet,

And when the moon her pallid face discloses,

I’ll gather some by spells, and incantation.