The Complete Works of John Keats: Poems, Plays & Personal Letters. John Keats
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love begins to weave
The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight ;
But, as I’ve read love’s missal through today,
He’ll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.
O! Were I one of the Olympian twelve
O! Were I one of the Olympian twelve,
Their godships should pass this into a law, -
That when a man doth set himself in toil
After some beauty veiled far away,
Each step he took should make his lady’s hand
More soft, more white, and her fair cheek more fair;
And for each briar-berry he might eat,
A kiss should bud upon the tree of love,
And pulp and ripen richer every hour,
To melt away upon the traveller’s lips.
Two or Three
From a Letter to His Sister
Two or three posies
With two or three simples -
Two or three noses
With two or three pimples -
Two or three wise men
And two or three ninny’s -
Two or three purses
And two or three guineas -
Two or three raps
At two or three doors - Two or three naps
Of two or three hours -
Two or three cats
And two or three mice
Two or three sprats
At a very great price -
Two or three sandies
And two or three tabbies -
Two or three dandies
And two Mrs — mum! Two or three smiles
And two or three frowns -
Two or three miles
To two or three towns -
Two or three pegs
For two or three bonnets -
Two or three dove eggs
To hatch into sonnets.
To the Ladies who Saw Me Crown’d
What is there in the universal Earth
More lovely than a Wreath from the bay tree?
Haply a Halo round the Moon - a glee
Circling from three sweet pair of lips in mirth;
And haply you will say the dewy birth
Of morning roses - riplings tenderly
Spread by the Halcyon’s breast upon the sea -
But these comparisons are nothing worth -
Then is there nothing in the world so fair?
The silvery tears of April? - Youth of May? Or June that breaths out life for butterflies?
No - none of these can from my favourite bear
Away the Palm - yet shall it ever pay
Due reverence to your most sovereign eyes.
A Draught of Sunshine
Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port,
Away with old Hock and Madeira,
Too earthly ye are for my sport;
There’s a beverage brighter and clearer.
Instead of a pitiful rummer,
My wine overbrims a whole summer;
My bowl is the sky,
And I drink at my eye,
Till I feel in the brain
A Delphian pain - Then follow, my Caius! then follow:
On the green of the hill
We will drink our fill
Of golden sunshine,
Till our brains intertwine
With the glory and grace of Apollo!
God of the meridian,
And of the east and west,
To thee my soul is flown,
And my body is earthward press’d. - It is an awful mission,
A terrible division;
And leaves a gulf austere
To be fill’d with worldly fear.
Aye, when the soul is fled
To high above our head,
Affrighted do we gaze
After its airy maze,
As doth a mother wild,
When her young infant child Is in an eagle’s claws -
And is not this the cause
Of madness? - God of Song,
Thou bearest me along
Through sights I scarce can bear:
O let me, let me share
With the hot lyre and thee.
The staid Philosophy.
Temper my lonely hours,
And let me see thy bowers
More unalarm’d!
To My Brother George
Full many a dreary hour have I past,
My brain bewilder’d, and my mind o’ercast
With heaviness; in seasons when I’ve thought
No spherey strains by me could e’er be caught
From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze
On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays;
Or, on the wavy grass outstretch’d supinely,
Pry ‘mong the stars, to strive to think divinely:
That I should never hear Apollo’s song,
Though feathery clouds were floating all along
The purple west, and, two bright streaks between,
The golden lyre itself were dimly seen:
That the still murmur of the honey bee
Would never teach a rural song to me:
That the bright glance from beauty’s eyelids slanting
Would never make a lay of mine enchanting,