Maxioms by John Keats
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon.
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon.
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.
The poetry of the earth is never dead.
The poetry of the earth is never dead.
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.
To Sorrow
I bade good-morrow,
And though to leave her far away behind;
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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.
