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    Poems by John Keats
    Poems by John Keats
    Poems by John Keats
    Ebook79 pages1 hour

    Poems by John Keats

    By John Keats

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    Glory and loveliness have passed away; For if we wander out in early morn, No wreathed incense do we see upborne Into the east, to meet the smiling day: No crowd of nymphs soft voic'd and young, and gay, In woven baskets bringing ears of corn, Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn The shrine of Flora in her early May. But there are left delights as high as these, And I shall ever bless my destiny, That in a time, when under pleasant trees Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free A leafy luxury, seeing I could please With these poor offerings, a man like thee.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPubMe
    Release dateJul 20, 2015
    ISBN9786050400144
    Poems by John Keats
    Author

    John Keats

    Born in London in 1795, John Keats is one of the most popular of the Romantic poets of the 19th century. During his short life his work failed to achieve literary acclaim, but after his death in 1821 his literary reputation steadily gained pace, inspiring many subsequent poets and students alike.

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      Poems by John Keats - John Keats

      POETRY

      STORY OF RIMINI.

      I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,

      The air was cooling, and so very still.

      That the sweet buds which with a modest pride

      Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,

      Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems,

      Had not yet lost those starry diadems

      Caught from the early sobbing of the morn.

      The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn,

      And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept

      On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept

      A little noiseless noise among the leaves,

      Born of the very sigh that silence heaves:

      For not the faintest motion could be seen

      Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green.

      There was wide wand'ring for the greediest eye,

      To peer about upon variety;

      Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim,

      And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim;

      To picture out the quaint, and curious bending

      Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending;

      Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves,

      Guess were the jaunty streams refresh themselves.

      I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free

      As though the fanning wings of Mercury

      Had played upon my heels: I was light-hearted,

      And many pleasures to my vision started;

      So I straightway began to pluck a posey

      Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy.

      A bush of May flowers with the bees about them;

      Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them;

      And let a lush laburnum oversweep them,

      And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them

      Moist, cool and green; and shade the violets,

      That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.

      A filbert hedge with wild briar overtwined,

      And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind

      Upon their summer thrones; there too should be

      The frequent chequer of a youngling tree,

      That with a score of light green brethen shoots

      From the quaint mossiness of aged roots:

      Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters

      Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters

      The spreading blue bells: it may haply mourn

      That such fair clusters should be rudely torn

      From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly

      By infant hands, left on the path to die.

      Open afresh your round of starry folds,

      Ye ardent marigolds!

      Dry up the moisture from your golden lids,

      For great Apollo bids

      That in these days your praises should be sung

      On many harps, which he has lately strung;

      And when again your dewiness he kisses,

      Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses:

      So haply when I rove in some far vale,

      His mighty voice may come upon the gale.

      Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight:

      With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white,

      And taper fulgent catching at all things,

      To bind them all about with tiny rings.

      Linger awhile upon some bending planks

      That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks,

      And watch intently Nature's gentle doings:

      They will be found softer than ring-dove's cooings.

      How silent comes the water round that bend;

      Not the minutest whisper does it send

      To the o'erhanging sallows: blades of grass

      Slowly across the chequer'd shadows pass.

      Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach

      To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach

      A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds;

      Where swarms of minnows show their little heads,

      Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams,

      To taste the luxury of sunny beams

      Temper'd with coolness. How they ever wrestle

      With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle

      Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand.

      If you but scantily hold out the hand,

      That very instant not one will remain;

      But turn your eye, and they are there again.

      The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses,

      And cool themselves among the em'rald tresses;

      The while they cool themselves, they freshness give,

      And moisture, that the bowery green may live:

      So keeping up an interchange of favours,

      Like good men in the truth of their behaviours

      Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop

      From low hung branches; little space they stop;

      But

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