You say you love; but with a voice Chaster than a nun's, who singeth The soft Vespers to herself While the chime-bell ringeth-O love me truly!
You say you love; but with a smile Cold as sunrise in September, As you were Saint Cupid's nun, And kept his weeks of Ember. O love me truly!
You say you love,-but then your lipsCoral tinted teach no blisses, More than coral in the sea-They never pout for kisses-O love me truly!
You say you love; but then your hand No soft squeeze for squeeze returneth, It is, like a statue's, dead, While mine to passion burneth-O love me truly!
O breathe a word or two of fire! Smile, as if those words should burn me. Squeeze as lovers should-O kiss And in thy heart inurn me! O love me truly!
John Keats (1795-1821