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St. Agnes’ Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Numb were the Beadsman’s fingers, while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seem’d taking flight for heaven, without a death,
Past the sweet Virgin’s picture, while his prayer he saith.
John Keats, “The Eve of St. Agnes”

Filed under the eve of st agnes keats poetry john keats january 20 british romantics stanza english literature for a poem that's so date rapey the words sure are pretty

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