John Keats ( 10 of 38 )
St Agnes' Eve--Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold.
St Agnes' Eve--Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold.
How beautiful, if sorrow had not made
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
How beautiful, if sorrow had not made
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
Each Bond-street buck conceits, unhappy elf;
He shows his clothes! alas! he shows himself.
O that they read more
Each Bond-street buck conceits, unhappy elf;
He shows his clothes! alas! he shows himself.
O that they knew, these overdrest self-lovers,
What hides the body oft the mind discovers.
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."
Souls of poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
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Souls of poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
O, sorrow!
Why dost borrow
Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?
O, sorrow!
Why dost borrow
Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?
The poppies hung
Dew-dabbed on their stalks.
The poppies hung
Dew-dabbed on their stalks.
Through the dancing poppies stole
A breeze most softly lulling to my soul.
Through the dancing poppies stole
A breeze most softly lulling to my soul.
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.
No, no, I'm sure,
My restless spirit never could endure
To brood so long upon one luxury,
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No, no, I'm sure,
My restless spirit never could endure
To brood so long upon one luxury,
Unless it did, though fearfully, espy
A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.
