Maxioms by John Keats
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."
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.
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.
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon.
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon.
Hear ye not the hum
Of mighty workings?
Hear ye not the hum
Of mighty workings?
