John Keats - Written In The Cottage Where Burns Was Born

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