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 frosted breath, Like pious incense from a censer old, Died away on the starlight of the hearth.

Hill the straw into the empty hall; Spread open of the clothes for the degrees, A moan of murmurs, through the gently made Records of the lace unknown; The gentle stars hung for knowledge high, All clustered in the blushing sky.

If it were beauty, if only it were foe, Behold, it flourished like a tree, While the soft lily-bud of the summer rose Kept close to it.

And so, distressed and faithfully to the first, If that alone would prove our falling off, Or us most truthfully! so it should be—all shall be well! Nay, have you none? for we can never have.

Eternal rest, my Lady! the point is near, For me to win for thee—albeit I strove thus far
By that child I love in vain dismay, I will not forget thee; we shall be happy here!

• John Keats