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.  
    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

Poem of the day

Charles Hamilton Sorley Poem
To Germany
 by Charles Hamilton Sorley

You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed,
And no man claimed the conquest of your land.
But gropers both through fields of thought confined
We stumble and we do not understand.
You only saw your future bigly planned,
And we, the tapering paths of our own mind,
And in each others dearest ways we stand,
And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind.

Read complete poem

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