Category John Keats

NOT Aladdin magian Ever such a work began; Not the wizard of the Dee Ever such a dream could see; Not Saint John, in Patmos’ isle, In the passion of his toil, When he saw the churches seven, Golden aisled, built…

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…

Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid! Give answer by thy voice, the sea-fowls’ screams! When were thy shoulders mantled in huge streams? When, from the sun, was thy broad forehead hid? How long is’t since the mighty Power bid Thee heave…

The town, the churchyard, and the setting sun, The clouds, the trees, the rounded hills all seem, Though beautiful, cold- strange- as in a dream I dreamed long ago, now new begun. The short-liv’d, paly summer is but won From…

1. Hush, hush! tread softly! hush, hush my dear! All the house is asleep, but we know very well That the jealous, the jealous old bald-pate may hear. Tho’ you’ve padded his night-cap — O sweet Isabel! Tho’ your feet…

Standing aloof in giant ignorance,    Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades, As one who sits ashore and longs perchance    To visit dolphin-coral in deep seas. So thou wast blind;—but then the veil was rent,    For Jove uncurtain’d Heaven…

Mother of Hermes! and still youthful Maia! May I sing to thee As thou wast hymned on the shores of Baiae? Or may I woo thee In earlier Sicilian? or thy smiles Seek as they once were sought, in Grecian…

1 Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel! Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love’s eye! They could not in the self-same mansion dwell Without some stir of heart, some malady; They could not sit at meals but feel how well It soothed…

BOOK I A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet…

The stretched metre of an antique song.’ Shakspeare’s Sonnets. INSCRIBED WITH EVERY FEELING OF PRIDE AND REGRET AND WITH ‘A BOWED MIND* TO THE MEMORY OF THE MOST ENGLISH OF POETS EXCEPT SHAKSPEARE, THOMAS CHATTERTON PREFACE Knowing within myself the…