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letra de the eve of st agnes - john keats - gideon wagner

st. agnes’ eve—ah, bitter chill it was!
the owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
the hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass
and silent was the flock in woolly fold:
numb were the beadsman’s fingers, while he told
his rosary, and while his frosted breath
like pious incense from a censer old
seem’d taking flight for heaven, without a death
past the sweet virgin’s picture, while his prayer he saith

his prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;
then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees
and back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan
along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:
the sculptur’d dead, on each side, seem to freeze
emprison’d in black, purgatorial rails:
knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat’ries
he passeth by; and his weak spirit fails
to think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails

northward he turneth through a little door
and scarce three steps, ere music’s golden tongue
flatter’d to tears this aged man and poor;
but no—already had his deathbell rung;
the joys of all his life were said and sung:
his was harsh penance on st. agnes’ eve:
another way he went, and soon among
rough ashes sat he for his soul’s reprieve
and all night kept awake, for sinners’ sake to grieve

- gideon wagner

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