As late I rambled in the happy fields,	
   What time the sky-lark shakes the tremulous dew	
   From his lush clover covert;—when anew	
Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields:	
I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,	        
   A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw	
   Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew	
As is the wand that queen Titania wields.	
And, as I feasted on its fragrancy,	
   I thought the garden-rose it far excell'd:	        
But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me	
   My sense with their deliciousness was spell'd:	
Soft voices had they, that with tender plea	
   Whisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell'd.

To Fanny.

I cry your mercy—pity—love!—ay, love!
  Merciful love that tantalises not
One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love,
  Unmask'd, and being seen—without a blot!
O! let me have thee whole,—all—all—be mine!
  That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest
Of love, your kiss,—those hands, those eyes divine,
  That warm, white, lucent, million-pleasured breast,—
Yourself—your soul—in pity give me all,
  Withhold no atom's atom or I die,
Or living on, perhaps, your wretched thrall,
  Forget, in the mist of idle misery,
Life's purposes,—the palate of my mind
Losing its gust, and my ambition blind!

^{For Fanny Brawne}

The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
    Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast,
Warm breath, light whisper, tender semitone,
    Bright eyes, accomplished shape, and lang'rous waist!
Faded the flower and all its budded charms,
    Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,
Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,
    Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise!
Vanished unseasonably at shut of eve,
    When the dusk holiday—or holinight—
Of fragrant-curtained love begins to weave
    The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight;
But, as I've read love's missal through today,
He'll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.