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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=421104" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To A Young Lady Who Sent Me A Laurel Crown</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=421104" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Fresh morning gusts have blown away all fear<br>From my glad bosom,—now from gloominess<br>I mount for ever—not an atom less<br>Than the proud laurel shall content my bier.<br>No! by the eternal stars! or why sit here<br>In the Sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples press<br>Apollo's very leaves, woven to bless<br>By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear.<br>Lo! who dares say, "Do this"? Who dares call down<br>My will from its high purpose? Who say,"Stand,"<br>Or, "Go"? This mighty moment I would frown<br>On abject Caesars—not the stoutest band<br>Of mailed heroes should tear off my crown:<br>Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle hand.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=John+Keats">John Keats</a></strong></div>

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