John Keats

And shade the violets,
That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.

And shade the violets,
That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.

The poetry of the earth is never dead.

The poetry of the earth is never dead.

In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne'er remember
Apollo's summer read more

In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne'er remember
Apollo's summer look;
But with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their crystal fretting,
Never, never petting
About the frozen time.

To Sorrow
I bade good-morrow,
And though to leave her far away behind;
But read more

To Sorrow
I bade good-morrow,
And though to leave her far away behind;
But cheerly, cheerly,
She loves me dearly:
She is so constant to me, and so kind.

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.