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I cry your mercy-pity-love!-aye, love'

I cry your mercy-pity-love!-aye, love,
Merciful love that tantalises not,
One-thoughted, never wand' ring, guileless love,
Unmask'd, 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, milion-pleasured breast,-
Yourself, your soul, in pity give me all,
Withold no atom's atom or I die,
Or living on perhaps, your wretched thrall,
Forget, in the midst of idle misery,
Life's purposes,-the palate of my mind
Losing its gust, and my ambition blind.

(John Keats)

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