When I have fears that I may cease to be
 Ere I can write out all that's in my brain,
 And print it up in books (don't spare that tree)
 Like barns stuffed with a full year's crop of grain;
 When I look up and see on night's starr'd face
 Strange signs not known to me, fate's song-and-dance,
 And think I shan't live so long as to trace
 Their shapes and forms in words--no, not a chance;
 And when I fear, sweet rose bud of an hour,
 My luck won't stretch to look on thee once more,
 Nor taste, nor drink my fill of that fey power
 That's love that counts not cost;--then on the shore
 Of the wide world I stand, just me, and think
 Till love and fame to dust and ash do sink.

                                -- John Keats
                                   (done by T.N.H.)