Page:Keats, poems published in 1820 (Robertson, 1909).djvu/92

64 She weeps alone for pleasures not to be; Sorely she wept until the night came on, And then, instead of love, O misery! She brooded o'er the luxury alone: His image in the dusk she seem'd to see, And to the silence made a gentle moan, Spreading her perfect arms upon the air, And on her couch low murmuring "Where? O where?"

But Selfishness, Love's cousin, held not long Its fiery vigil in her single breast; She fretted for the golden hour, and hung Upon the time with feverish unrest— Not long—for soon into her heart a throng Of higher occupants, a richer zest, Came tragic; passion not to be subdued, And sorrow for her love in travels rude.