John Keats: The Eve of St. Agnes
I
St. Agnes’ Eve - Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Numb were the Beadsman’s fingers, while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious…
-
fuckyeahromanticism reblogged this from john-keats
-
john-keats posted this
