Poem by John Keats

Ode to Fanny

PHYSICIAN Nature! Let my spirit blood!
   O ease my heart of verse and let me rest;
Throw me upon thy Tripod, till the flood
   Of stifling numbers ebbs from my full breast.
A theme! a theme! great nature! give a theme;
    Let me begin my dream. 
I come -- I see thee, as thou standest there,
Beckon me not into the wintry air.

Ah! dearest love, sweet home of all my fears,
   And hopes, and joys, and panting miseries, --
To-night, if I may guess, thy beauty wears
    A smile of such delight, 
    As brilliant and as bright, 
As when with ravished, aching, vassal eyes,
    Lost in soft amaze, 
    I gaze, I gaze!

Who now, with greedy looks, eats up my feast?
   What stare outfaces now my silver moon!
Ah! keep that hand unravished at the least;
    Let, let, the amorous burn -- 
    But pr'ythee, do not turn 
The current of your heart from me so soon.
    O! save, in charity, 
    The quickest pulse for me.

Save it for me, sweet love! though music breathe
   Voluptuous visions into the warm air;
Though swimming through the dance's dangerous wreath,
    Be like an April day, 
    Smiling and cold and gay, 
A temperate lilly, temperate as fair;
    Then, Heaven! there will be 
    A warmer June for me.

Why, this, you'll say, my Fanny! is not true:
   Put your soft hand upon your snowy side,
Where the heart beats: confess -- 'tis nothing new --
    Must not a woman be 
    A feather on the sea, 
Sway'd to and fro by every wind and tide?
    Of as uncertain speed 
    As blow-ball from the mead?

I know it -- and to know it is despair
   To one who loves you as I love, sweet Fanny!
Whose heart goes fluttering for you every where,
    Nor, when away you roam, 
    Dare keep its wretched home, 
Love, love alone, his pains severe and many:
    Then, loveliest! keep me free, 
    From torturing jealousy.

Ah! if you prize my subdued soul above
   The poor, the fading, brief, pride of an hour;
Let none profane my Holy See of love,
    Or with a rude hand break 
    The sacramental cake: 
Let none else touch the just new-budded flower;
    If not -- may my eyes close, 
    Love! on their lost repose. 

1. On Receiving a Laurel Crown from Leigh Hunt
2. Bards of Passion and of Mirth
3. Specimen of Induction to a Poem
4. Calidore
5. On Fame

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