Verse > Anthologies > Hunt and Lee, eds. > The Book of the Sonnet
Hunt and Lee, comps.  The Book of the Sonnet.  1867.
VIII. To J. H. Reynolds
By John Keats (1795–1821)
O THAT a week could be an age, and we
  Felt parting and warm meeting every week;
Then one poor year a thousand years would be,
  The flush of welcome ever on the cheek:
So would we live long life in little space;        5
  So time itself would be annihilate;
So a day’s journey in oblivious haze
  To serve our joys would lengthen and dilate.
O to arrive each Monday morn from Ind!
  To land each Tuesday from the rich Levant!        10
In little time a host of joys to bind,
  And keep our souls in one eternal pant;
This morn, my friend, and yester evening taught
Me how to harbor such a happy thought.

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