The Eve of St. Agnes

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 frosty fingers
Fumm’d the beads with influence divine.
Two lovers, waking in the hush of the day,
Will give integrity to a velvet night.

— The Eve of St. Agnes

• John Keats