“My Soul Doth Ache”

“ . . . 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” by John Keats, published 1820. Painting by Arthur Hughes, 1856