John Keats (1795–1821)

Tous les poèmes de John Keats sur Kalliope, classés par ordre alphabétique du premier vers. La liste peut servir à trouver un poème lorsque le titre est inconnu.

A

As late I rambled in the happy fields

Asleep! O sleep a little while, white pearl

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever

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

In drear nighted December

I stood tip-toe upon a little hill

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

Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning

O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung

O golden-tongued Romance, with serene lute!

One morn before me were three figures seen

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

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