Author: John Keats

Keen, fitful gusts are whisp’ring here and there Among the bushes half leafless, and dry; The stars look very cold […]

Happy is England! I could be content To see no other verdure than its own; To feel no other breezes […]

To one who has been long in city pent, ‘Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face […]

How many bards gild the lapses of time! A few of them have ever been the food Of my delighted […]

Full many a dreary hour have I past, My brain bewildered, and my mind o’ercast With heaviness; in seasons when […]

O soft embalmer of the still midnight, Shutting, with careful fingers and benign, Our gloom-pleas’d eyes, embower’d from the light, […]

GIVE me women, wine, and snuff Untill I cry out “hold, enough!” You may do so sans objection Till the […]

As late I rambled in the happy fields, What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dew From his lush clover […]

Standing aloof in giant ignorance, Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades, As one who sits ashore and longs […]

Fill for me a brimming bowl And in it let me drown my soul: But put therein some drug, designed […]