Written In The Cottage Where Burns Was Born

by John Keats

　　

---

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!

---

---