This Living Hand
-- John
Keats 1819?
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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