                                      1816
                          ON SEEING THE ELGIN MARBLES
                                 by John Keats

        My spirit is too weak- mortality
          Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep,
          And each imagin'd pinnacle and steep
        Of godlike hardship tells me I must die
        Like a sick Eagle looking at the sky.
          Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep
          That I have not the cloudy winds to keep
        Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye.
        Such dim-conceived glories of the brain
          Bring round the heart an undescribable feud;
        So do these wonders a most dizzy pain,
          That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude
        Wasting of old Time- with a billowy main-
          A sun- a shadow of a magnitude.


                        THE END
