John Keats Poems

  • 201.  
    Written on May-Day, 1818

  • 202.  
    Ever let the Fancy roam,
    Pleasure never is at home:At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,
  • 203.  
    Written on the Blank Page before Beaumont and Fletcher's
    Tragi-Comedy ‘The Fair Maid of the Inn'
  • 204.  
    What though, for showing truth to flattered state,
    Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he,In his immortal spirit, been as free
  • 205.  
    The church bells toll a melancholy round,
    Calling the people to some other prayers,Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares,
  • 206.  
    This pleasant tale is like a little copse:
    The honied lines so freshly interlace,To keep the reader in so sweet a place,
  • 207.  
    O golden-tongued Romance with serene lute!
    Fair plumed Syren! Queen of far away!Leave melodizing on this wintry day,
  • 208.  
    Why did I laugh tonight? No voice will tell:
    No God, no Demon of severe response,Deigns to reply from Heaven or from Hell.
  • 209.  
    Where be ye going, you Devon maid?
    And what have ye there i' the basket?Ye tight little fairy, just fresh from the dairy,
  • 210.  
    When I have fears that I may cease to be
    Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,Before high-piled books, in charactery,
  • 211.  
    O solitude! if I must with thee dwell,
    Let it not be among the jumbled heap Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep,-
  • 212.  
    Son of the old Moon-mountains African!
    Chief of the Pyramid and Crocodile!We call thee fruitful, and that very while
  • 213.  
    O soft embalmer of the still midnight,
    Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,Our gloom-pleas'd eyes, embower'd from the light,
  • 214.  
    To one who has been long in city pent,
    'Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven,-to breathe a prayer
  • 215.  
    Small, busy flames play through the fresh-laid coals,
    And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creepLike whispers of the household gods that keep
  • 216.  
    Many the wonders I this day have seen:
    The sun, when first he kissed away the tearsThat filled the eyes of Morn;-the laurelled peers
  • 217.  
    O that a week could be an age, and we
    Felt parting and warm meeting every week,Then one poor year a thousand years would be,
  • 218.  
    When by my solitary hearth I sit,
    And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom;When no fair dreams before my “mind's eye” flit,
  • 219.  
    Standing aloof in giant ignorance,
    Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades,As one who sits ashore and longs perchance
  • 220.  
    Haydon! forgive me that I cannot speak
    Definitively of these mighty things;Forgive me, that I have not eagle's wings,
  • 221.  
    Nymph of the downward smile and sidelong glance!
    In what diviner moments of the dayArt thou most lovely?-when gone far astray
  • 222.  
    I cry your mercy-pity-love!-aye, love!
    Merciful love that tantalizes not,One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love,
  • 223.  
    I
    Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
  • 224.  
    Hearken, thou craggy ocean-pyramid,
    Give answer by thy voice-the sea-fowls' screams!When were thy shoulders mantled in huge streams?
  • 225.  
    Fresh morning gusts have blown away all fear
    From my glad bosom,-now from gloominessI mount for ever-not an atom less
  • 226.  
    As late I rambled in the happy fields,
    What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dewFrom his lush clover covert;-when anew
  • 227.  
    Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs
    Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell,Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well
  • 228.  
    Think not of it, sweet one, so;-
    Give it not a tear;Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go
  • 229.  
    Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
    There are four seasons in the mind of man:He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
  • 230.  
    St. Agnes' Eve-Ah, bitter chill it was!
    The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,
  • 231.  
    The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
    Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast,Warm breath, light whisper, tender semitone,
  • 232.  
    to a friend

  • 233.  
    It keeps eternal whisperings around
    Desolate shores, and with its mighty swellGluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell
  • 234.  
    The poetry of earth is never dead:
    When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
  • 235.  
    O golden-tongued Romance with serene lute!
    Fair plumed Syren! Queen of far away! Leave melodizing on this wintry day,
  • 236.  
    My spirit is too weak; mortality
    Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep,And each imagined pinnacle and steep
  • 237.  
    Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
    On heaped-up flowers, in regions clear, and far;Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,
  • 238.  
    Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,
    And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been
  • 239.  
    Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy
    To those who woo her with too slavish knees,But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy,
  • 240.  
    O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
    By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
  • 241.  
    My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
    My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
  • 242.  
    No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
    Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
  • 243.  
    One morn before me were three figures seen,
    I With bowed necks, and joined hands, side-faced;And one behind the other stepp'd serene,
  • 244.  
    Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
    Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
  • 245.  
    O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell,
    Let it not be among the jumbled heapOf murky buildings: climb with me the steep,-
  • 246.  
    O blush not so! O blush not so!
    Or I shall think you knowing;And if you smile the blushing while,
  • 247.  
    Old Meg she was a Gipsy,
    And liv'd upon the Moors:Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
  • 248.  
    Souls of Poets dead and gone,
    What Elysium have ye known,Happy field or mossy cavern,
  • 249.  
    Unfelt unheard, unseen,
    I've left my little queen,Her languid arms in silver slumber lying:
  • 250.  
    Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
    Alone and palely loitering;The sedge is wither'd from the lake,
Total 268 poems written by John Keats

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