Although these are not the only poems which owe their origin to Keats's consuming passion, they are grouped here because, ap

parently written in the same period, they stand as a painful witness to the ebbing tide of Keats's life.

WHAT can I do to drive away Remembrance from my eyes? for they have seen,

Aye, an hour ago, my brilliant Queen!
Touch has a memory. O say, love, say,
What can I do to kill it and be free
In my old liberty?

When every fair one that I saw was fair,
Enough to catch me in but half a snare,
Not keep me there:

When, howe'er poor or particolour'd things,
My muse had wings,

And ever ready was to take her course
Whither I bent her force,