John Keats
(1795-1821)

"The blissful cloud of summer-indolence
Benumb'd my eyes; my pulse grew less and less;
Pain had no string, and pleasure's wreath no flower:
O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense
Unhaunted quite of all but-nothingness?"

from "Ode on Indolence," May 1819
by John Keats (1795-1821)


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