Keats

The tall arched windows were flung open wideTo the cool night breeze. Not a shadow hungBetween the world without and he within—It would have stifled him, his soul so gaspedAnd struggled for more breath—for room to be!And with uneven steps treading in hasteAcross the floor with moonlight carpeted,He flung his arms out wildly, as if heWould part the air pressing too hard around,As if even space were palpable to him,And weighed upon his spirit with a mightThat crushed his soul like iron. All the whileThe big drops of his anguish stood out thickUpon his pale, broad forehead; and his lips