The Eve of St Agnes - John Keats

Lyrics

St. Agnes' Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass And silent was the flock in woolly fold: Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath Like pious incense from a censer old Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man; Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails: Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails Northward he turneth through a little door And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor; But no—already had his deathbell rung; The joys of all his life were said and sung: His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve: Another way he went, and soon among Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve