                                      1816
                  WRITTEN IN THE COTTAGE WHERE BURNS WAS BORN
                                 by John Keats

        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 old 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!


                        THE END
