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She danced along with vague, regardless eyes; Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short: The hallowed hour was near at hand: she sighs Amid the timbrels, and the thronged resort Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, Hoodwinked with faery fancy; all amort, Save to St Agnes and her lambs unshorn, And all the bliss to be before tomorrow morn. -John Keats (1795-1821), The Eve of St. Agnes |