The Terror of Death
John Keats, 1819

When I have fears that I may cease to be
     Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
     Before high-piléd books, in charact'ry,
     Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;

     When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
     Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
     And think that I may never live to trace
     Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;

     And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour!
     That I shall never look upon thee more,
     Never have relish in the fairy power
     Of unreflecting love--then on the shore

     Of the wide world I stand alone, and think,
     Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.