This Living Hand

by John Keats

		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 thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
		That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood,
		So in my veins red life might stream again,
		And thou be conscience-calm'd. See, here it is -
		I hold it towards you.

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