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