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John Keats
(1795–1821)
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A
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever
As late I rambled in the happy fields
Asleep! O sleep a little while, white pearl
B
Bards of passion and of mirth
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art
D
Deep in the shady sadness of a vale
E
Ever let the Fancy roam
F
Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel!
Fill for me a brimming bowl
Four seasons fill the measure of the year
Full many a dreary hour have I past
G
Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
Glory and loveliness have passed away
Good Kosciusko, thy great name alone
Great spirits now on earth are sojourning
H
Had I a man’s fair form, then might my sighs
Hadst thou liv’d in days of old
Happy is England! I could be content
Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem
Highmindedness, a jealousy for good
How many bards gild the lapses of time!
I
I stood tip-toe upon a little hill
In drear nighted December
J
Just at the self-same beat of Time’s wide wings
K
Keen, fitful gusts are whisp’ring here and there
L
Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry
Love in a hut, with water and a crust
M
Many the wonders I this day have seen
Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold
Muse of my native land! loftiest Muse!
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My spirit is too weak — mortality
N
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
No! those days are gone away
Now Morning from her orient chamber came
Nymph of the downward smile, and sidelong glance
O
O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
O golden-tongued Romance, with serene lute!
O soft embalmer of the still midnight
O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell
O sovereign power of love! O grief! O balm!
O what can ail thee, knight at arms
Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning
One morn before me were three figures seen
S
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness
Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals
Souls of poets dead and gone
St. Agnes’ Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was!
Standing aloof in giant ignorance
Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong
T
The poetry of earth is never dead
There are who lord it o’er their fellow-men
Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness
Thus in alternate uproar and sad peace
Time’s sea hath been five years at its slow ebb
To one who has been long in city pent
U
Upon a time, before the faery broods
W
What is more gentle than a wind in summer?
What though, for showing truth to flatter’d state
What though while the wonders of nature exploring
When by my solitary hearth I sit
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Why did I laugh tonight? No voice will tell
Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain
Y
Young Calidore is paddling o’er the lake