Things I Like

Fade far away, dissolve and quite forget
��� What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
��� Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
��� Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
������� Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
����������� And leaden-eyed despairs,
������� Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
��� Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
��������������������������� -John Keats
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South Park Street Cemetery, Calcutta