Written in Burns' Cottage. 
By Keats, John. 


This mortal body of a thousand days
Now fills, O Burns, a space in thine own room,
Where thou didst dream alone on budded bays,
Happy and thoughtless of thy day of doom!
My pulse is warm with thine own Barley-bree,
My head is light with pledging a great soul,
My eyes are wandering, and I cannot see
Fancy is dead and drunken at its goal;
Yet can I stamp my foot upon thy floor,
Yet can I ope thy window-sash to find
The meadow thou hast tramped o'er and o'er, - 
Yet can I think of thee till thought is blind, - 
Yet can I gulp a bumper to thy name, - 
O smile among the shades, for this is fame!