This Mortal Body Of A Thousand Days Now Fills, O Burns, A Space In Thine Own Room, Where Thou Didst Dream Alone On Budded Bays, Happy And Thoughtless Of Thy Day Of Doom! My Pulse Is Warm With Thine Old Barley-Bree, My Head Is Light With Pledging A Great Soul, My Eyes Are Wandering, And I Cannot See, Fancy Is Dead And Drunken At Its Goal; Yet Can I Stamp My Foot Upon Thy Floor, Yet Can I Ope Thy Window-Sash To Find The Meadow Thou Hast Tramped O'Er And O'Er, Yet Can I Think Of Thee Till Thought Is Blind, Yet Can I Gulp A Bumper To Thy Name, O Smile Among The Shades, For This Is Fame!