This Living Hand

This living hand, now warm and capable

Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold

And in the icy silence of the tomb,

So haunt the days and chill thy dreaming nights

That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood

So in my viens red life might stream again,

And thou be concience-calm'd-see here it is-

I hold it torwards you.

John Keats  (1898)