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Written In The Cottage Where Burns Was Born

By John Keats

Topics: classic

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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"This mortal body of a thousand days..."

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Author:John Keats

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"This mortal body of a thousand days..." by John Keats

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John Keats

About John Keats

John Keats (1795–1821) was an English Romantic poet whose odes—"Ode to a Nightingale," "Ode on a Grecian Urn," "To Autumn"—are among the most celebrated in the language. Despite dying of tuberculosis at 25, he produced work of extraordinary sensory richness and philosophical depth.

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