This Living Hand
This Living Hand
John Keats
This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calmed — see here it is —
I hold it towards you.
Verse breaks and indentation are preserved. Wrapped lines have a hanging indent. Width adapts to your screen.
Written c. 1819–20. Published 1898.
