John Keats (1795–1821)

TIME’S sea hath been five years at its slow ebb,

Long hours have to and fro let creep the sand,

Since I was tangled in thy beauty’s web,

And snared by the ungloving of thine hand.

And yet I never look on midnight sky,

But I behold thine eyes’ well memoried light;

I cannot look upon the rose’s dye,

But to thy cheek my soul doth take its flight.

I cannot look on any budding flower,

But my fond ear, in fancy at thy lips

And harkening for a love-sound, doth devour

Its sweets in the wrong sense:—Thou dost eclipse

Every delight with sweet remembering,

And grief unto my darling joys dost bring.