A poem by John Keats, maybe left unfinished but look how strongly it creates the uncanny feeling:
"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."
Da fuck are you talking about anon? If you must be so distastefully reductive, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, Byron & Keats are all Romantic & Patrician. Also Blake master race mother fucker, so you done goofed. Schiller? Give me a break...
/lit/ crit threads are just children torturing insects, kicking downwards on something even lower than themselves.
O soft embalmer of the still midnight,
Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
Our gloom-pleas'd eyes, embower'd from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close
In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes,
Or wait the "Amen," ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities.
Then save me, or the passed day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes,—
Save me from curious Conscience, that still lords
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.