To * * * * * *

HAD I a man�s fair form, then might my sighs
Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell
Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well
Would passion arm me for the enterprize:
But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;        

No cuirass glistens on my bosom�s swell;
I am no happy shepherd of the dell
Whose lips have trembled with a maiden�s eyes.
Yet must I doat upon thee,�call thee sweet,
Sweeter by far than Hybla�s honied roses        

When steep�d in dew rich to intoxication.
Ah! I will taste that dew, for me �tis meet,
And when the moon her pallid face discloses,
I�ll gather some by spells, and incantation.

                             ---John Keats