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John Keats - Written In The Cottage Where Burns Was Born
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This mortal body of a thousand days 
Now fills, O Burns, a space in thine own room, 
Where thou didst dream alone on budded bays, 
Happy and thoughtless of thy day of doom! 
My pulse is warm with thine old barley-bree, 
My head is light with pledging a great soul, 
My eyes are wandering, and I cannot see, 
Fancy is dead and drunken at its goal; 
Yet can I stamp my foot upon thy floor, 
Yet can I ope thy window-sash to find 
The meadow thou hast tramped o`er and o`er,-- 
Yet can I think of thee till thought is blind,-- 
Yet can I gulp a bumper to thy name,-- 
O smile among the shades, for this is fame!
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