John Keats(1795–1821) · Life, Letters, and Literary Remains, of John Keats · 1848
I cry your mercy—pity—love—aye, love! Merciful love that tantalizes not, One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love, Unmask’d, 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!