Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/177

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Isabel, poor simple Isabel!
 * Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love's eye!

They could not in the self-same mansion dwell
 * Without some stir of heart, some malady;

They could not sit at meals but feel how well
 * It soothed each to be the other by;

They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep, But to each other dream, and nightly weep.

With every morn their love grew tenderer,
 * With every eve deeper and tenderer still;

He might not in house, field, or garden stir,
 * But her full shape would all his seeing fill;

And his continual voice was pleasanter
 * To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill;

Her lute-string gave an echo of his name. She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same.

He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch,
 * Before the door had given her to his eyes;