John Keats

"I cry your mercy-pity-love! -aye, love!"

I cry your mercy—pity—love!—aye, love!
  Merciful love that tantalizes not,
One—thoughted, never—wandering, guileless love,
  Unmasked, and being seen—without a blot!
O! let me have thee whole,—all—all—be mine!
  That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest
Of love, your kiss,—those hands, those eyes divine,
  That warm, white, lucent, million—pleasured breast,
Yourself—your soul—in pity give me all,
  Withhold no atom’s atom or I die
Or living on perhaps, your wretched thrall,
  Forget, in the mist of idle misery,
Life’s purposes,—the palate of my mind
  Losing its gust, and my ambition blind!
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