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Poem by John Keats
I cry your mercy—pity—love!—aye, love! Merciful love that tantalizes not, One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love, Unmasked, 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!
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