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Category Poets

On Hearing The Bag-Pipe And Seeing

ON HEARING THE BAG-PIPE AND SEEING ‘ THE STRANGER’ PLAYED AT INVERARY Of late two dainties were before me plac’d Sweet, holy, pure, sacred and innocent, From the ninth sphere to me benignly sent That Gods might know my own…

The Gadfly

1. All gentle folks who owe a grudge To any living thing Open your ears and stay your t[r]udge Whilst I in dudgeon sing. 2. The Gadfly he hath stung me sore– O may he ne’er sting you! But we…

To Thomas Keats

Ah ! ken ye what I met the day Out oure the Mountains A coming down by craggies gray An mossie fountains — Ah goud-hair’d Marie yeve I pray Ane minute’s guessing — For that I met upon the way…

A Song About Myself

I. There was a naughty boy, A naughty boy was he, He would not stop at home, He could not quiet be- He took In his knapsack A book Full of vowels And a shirt With some towels, A slight…

Meg Merrilies

Old Meg she was a Gipsy,        And liv’d upon the Moors: Her bed it was the brown heath turf,        And her house was out of doors. Her apples were swart blackberries,        Her currants pods o’ broom; Her…

Acrostic: Georgiana Augusta Keats

Give me your patience, sister, while I frame Exact in capitals your golden name; Or sue the fair Apollo and he will Rouse from his heavy slumber and instill Great love in me for thee and Poesy. Imagine not that…

The Devon Maid

1. Where be ye going, you Devon maid? And what have ye there i’ the basket? Ye tight little fairy, just fresh from the dairy, Will ye give me some cream if I ask it? 2. I love your meads,…

At Teignmouth

I. Here all the summer could I stay, For there’s Bishop’s teign And King’s teign And Coomb at the clear Teign head– Where close by the stream You may have your cream All spread upon barley bread. II. There’s Arch…

A Draught Of Sunshine

Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port, Away with old Hock and madeira, Too earthly ye are for my sport; There’s a beverage brighter and clearer. Instead of a piriful rummer, My wine overbrims a whole summer; My bowl is the sky,…

Epistle to John Hamilton Reynolds

Dear Reynolds ! As last night I lay in bed, There came before my eyes that wonted thread Of shapes, and shadows, and remembrances. That every other minute vex and please: Things all disjointed come from north and south, —…