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- 1816
- WRITTEN IN THE COTTAGE WHERE BURNS WAS BORN
- by John Keats
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- This mortal body of a thousand days
- Now fills, O Burns, a space in thine own room,
- Where thou didst dream alone on budded bays,
- Happy and thoughtless of thy day of doom!
- My pulse is warm with thine old Barley-bree,
- My head is light with pledging a great soul,
- My eyes are wandering, and I cannot see,
- Fancy is dead and drunken at its goal;
- Yet can I stamp my foot upon thy floor,
- Yet can I ope thy window-sash to find
- The meadow thou hast tramped o'er and o'er,
- Yet can I think of thee till thought is blind,
- Yet can I gulp a bumper to thy name,-
- O smile among the shades, for this is fame!
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- THE END
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