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John Keats - Woman! When I Behold Thee Flippant, Vain
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Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain, 
    Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies; 
    Without that modest softening that enhances 
The downcast eye, repentant of the pain 
That its mild light creates to heal again: 
    E`en then, elate, my spirit leaps, and prances, 
    E`en then my soul with exultation dances 
For that to love, so long, I`ve dormant lain: 
But when I see thee meek, and kind, and tender, 
    Heavens! how desperately do I adore 
    Thy winning graces;--to be thy defender 
    I hotly burn--to be a Calidore-- 
A very Red Cross Knight--a stout Leander-- 
    Might I be loved by thee like these of yore. 

Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair; 
    Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and creamy breast, 
    Are things on which the dazzled senses rest 
Till the fond, fixed eyes, forget they stare. 
From such fine pictures, heavens! I cannot dare 
    To turn my admiration, though unpossess`d 
    They be of what is worthy,--though not drest 
In lovely modesty, and virtues rare. 
Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark; 
    These lures I straight forget--e`en ere I dine, 
Or thrice my palate moisten: but when I mark 
    Such charms with mild intelligences shine, 
My ear is open like a greedy shark, 
    To catch the tunings of a voice divine. 

Ah! who can e`er forget so fair a being? 
    Who can forget her half retiring sweets? 
    God! she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats 
For man`s protection. Surely the All-seeing, 
Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing, 
    Will never give him pinions, who intreats 
    Such innocence to ruin,--who vilely cheats 
A dove-like bosom. In truth there is no freeing 
One`s thoughts from such a beauty; when I hear 
    A lay that once I saw her hand awake, 
Her form seems floating palpable, and near; 
    Had I e`er seen her from an arbour take 
A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear, 
    And o`er my eyes the trembling moisture shake.
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