The Eve of St. Agnes

 

  “ . . . And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, 

       In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd, 

       While he forth from the closet brought a heap 

       Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd; 

       With jellies soother than the creamy curd, 

       And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon; 

       Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd 

       From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one, 

From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon. 

       These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand 

       On golden dishes and in baskets bright 

       Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand 

       In the retired quiet of the night, 

       Filling the chilly room with perfume light.— 

       "And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! 

       Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite: 

       Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, 

Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache. . . “

From “The Eve of St. Agnes” (on January 20) by John Keats, published 1820. Spend 15 minutes in the Classics!