This living hand,

now warm and capable of earnest grasping,

would, if it were cold

And in the icy silence of the tomb,

So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights

That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood

So in my veins red life might stream again,

And thou be conscience

calm’d–see here it is–

I hold it towards you.

–by John Keats