Page:Keats, poems published in 1820 (Robertson, 1909).djvu/111

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THE

EVE OF ST. AGNES.

I.

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.

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