Read "Written in the Cottage where Burns was Born" by John Keats online for free on Textopian. Full text with search, annotations, highlights, and AI-powered reading aids.
This mortal body of a thousand days / Now fills, O Burns, a space in thine own room, / Where thou didst dream alone on budded bays, / Happy and thoughtless of thy day of doom!
My pulse is warm with thine old Barley-bree, / My head is light with pledging a great soul, / My eyes are wandering, and I cannot see, / Fancy is dead and drunken at its goal; / Yet can I stamp my foot upon thy floor, / Yet can I ope thy window-sash to find / The meadow thou hast tramped o'er and o'er, --
Yet can I think of thee till thought is blind, --
Yet can I gulp a bumper to thy name, --
O smile among the shades, for this is fame!