John Keats wrote in the early 1800s, with a voice that speaks to us in modern times. Here is one of his poems.

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--

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