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This living hand, now warm and capable

Other Poems of 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 wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again
And thou be conscience-calm’d—see here it is—
I hold it towards you.

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