John Keats

Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.

Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.

He play'd an ancient ditty long since mute,
In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans merci."

He play'd an ancient ditty long since mute,
In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans merci."

Where the nightingale doth sing
Not a senseless, tranced thing,
But divine melodious truth.

Where the nightingale doth sing
Not a senseless, tranced thing,
But divine melodious truth.

O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell,
Let it not be among the jumbled heap
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O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell,
Let it not be among the jumbled heap
Of murky buildings: climb with me the steep,--
Nature's observatory--whence the dell,
In flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell,
May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep
'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the deer's swift leap
Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell.

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.