To John Keats
Great master! Boyish, sympathetic man! Whose orbed and ripened genius lightly hung From life’s slim, twisted tendril and there swung In crimson-sphered completeness; guardian Of crystal portals through whose openings fan The spiced winds
A Ballad of Footmen
Now what in the name of the sun and the stars Is the meaning of this most unholy of wars? Do men find life so full of humour and joy That for want of
The Cremona Violin
Part First Frau Concert-Meister Altgelt shut the door. A storm was rising, heavy gusts of wind Swirled through the trees, and scattered leaves before Her on the clean, flagged path. The sky behind The
The Dinner-Party
Fish “So. . .” they said, With their wine-glasses delicately poised, Mocking at the thing they cannot understand. “So. . .” they said again, Amused and insolent. The silver on the table glittered, And
The Boston Athenaeum
Thou dear and well-loved haunt of happy hours, How often in some distant gallery, Gained by a little painful spiral stair, Far from the halls and corridors where throng The crowd of casual readers,
Diya {original title is Greek, Delta-iota-psi-alpha}
Look, Dear, how bright the moonlight is to-night! See where it casts the shadow of that tree Far out upon the grass. And every gust Of light night wind comes laden with the scent
To Elizabeth Ward Perkins
Dear Bessie, would my tired rhyme Had force to rise from apathy, And shaking off its lethargy Ring word-tones like a Christmas chime. But in my soul’s high belfry, chill The bitter wind of
Sancta Maria, Succurre Miseris
Dear Virgin Mary, far away, Look down from Heaven while I pray. Open your golden casement high, And lean way out beyond the sky. I am so little, it may be A task for
Number 3 on the Docket
The lawyer, are you? Well! I ain’t got nothin’ to say. Nothin’! I told the perlice I hadn’t nothin’. They know’d real well ’twas me. Ther warn’t no supposin’, Ketchin’ me in the woods
The Bungler
You glow in my heart Like the flames of uncounted candles. But when I go to warm my hands, My clumsiness overturns the light, And then I stumble Against the tables and chairs.
Sword Blades and Poppy Seed
A drifting, April, twilight sky, A wind which blew the puddles dry, And slapped the river into waves That ran and hid among the staves Of an old wharf. A watery light Touched bleak
Sea Shell
Sea Shell, Sea Shell, Sing me a song, O Please! A song of ships, and sailor men, And parrots, and tropical trees, Of islands lost in the Spanish Main Which no man ever may
From One Who Stays
How empty seems the town now you are gone! A wilderness of sad streets, where gaunt walls Hide nothing to desire; sunshine falls Eery, distorted, as it long had shone On white, dead faces
Suggested by the Cover of a Volume of Keats's Poems
Wild little bird, who chose thee for a sign To put upon the cover of this book? Who heard thee singing in the distance dim, The vague, far greenness of the enshrouding wood, When
Hora Stellatrix
The stars hang thick in the apple tree, The south wind smells of the pungent sea, Gold tulip cups are heavy with dew. The night’s for you, Sweetheart, for you! Starfire rains from the