XXXI.

These delicates he heap´d with glowing hand
On golden dishes and in baskets bright
Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand
In the retired quiet of the night,
Filling the chilly room with perfume light.—
“And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake!
“Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite:
“Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes´ sake,
“Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache.”

The Eve of St. Agnes
John Keats