John Keats (1795–1821)

O THAT a week could be an age, and we

Felt parting and warm meeting every week;

Then one poor year a thousand years would be,

The flush of welcome ever on the cheek:

So would we live long life in little space;

So time itself would be annihilate;

So a day’s journey in oblivious haze

To serve our joys would lengthen and dilate.

O to arrive each Monday morn from Ind!

To land each Tuesday from the rich Levant!

In little time a host of joys to bind,

And keep our souls in one eternal pant;

This morn, my friend, and yester evening taught

Me how to harbor such a happy thought.