Who now, with greedy looks, eats up my feast? What stare outfaces now my silver moon? Ah! keep that hand unravished at the least; Let, let the amorous burn-- But, pr'ythee, do not turn The current of your heart from me so soon. O! save, in charity, The quickest pulse for me. Save it for me, sweet love! though music breathe Voluptuous visions into the warm air; Though swimming through the dance's dangerous wreath, Be like an April day, Smiling and cold and gay, A temperate lily, temperate as fair; Then, Heaven! there will be A warmer June for me. Ah! if you prize my subdu'd soul above The poor, the fading, brief pride of an hour; Let none profane my Holy See of Love, Or with a rude hand break The sacramental cake: Let none else touch the just new-budded flower: If not--may my eyes close, Love! on their last repose. In both of these poems Keats soothes himself with thoughts of dying, and they are doubtless among the things he had in mind when two or three months later, in the ode _To a Nightingale_, he speaks of having invoked Death by soft names 'in many a mused rhyme.' Fearing the intrusion of what in another sonnet of the time he calls 'The dragon-world and all its hundred eyes,' he was intensely jealous in guarding his secret from friends and acquaintances; and in writing even to those dearest to him he lets slip no word that might betray it. To his brother he merely says, 'Miss Brawne and I have now and then a chat and a tiff,' while to his young sister he writes on February 27th that he wishes he could come to her at Walthamstow for a month or so, packing off Mrs Abbey to town, and get her to teach him 'a few common dancing steps,'--for what reason, to us too pathetically evident, he of course gives no hint.