What Kisses Had John Keats?

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1. La Belle Dame Sans Merci Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, Alone and palely loitering; The sedge is wither’d from the lake, And no birds sing. Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel’s granary is full, And the harvest’s done. I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever […]...
2. Kisses Sweet, can I sing you the song of your kisses? How soft is this one, how subtle this is, How fluttering swift as a bird’s kiss that is, As a bird that taps at a leafy lattice; How this one clings and how that uncloses From bud to flower in the way of roses; And […]...
3. Adonais: An Elegy on the Death of John Keats I weep for Adonais he is dead! Oh, weep for Adonais! though our tears Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head! And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers, And teach them thine own sorrow, say: “With me Died Adonais; till the Future dares […]...
4. 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 which blew when earth was young, Scattering wreaths of stars, as Jove once flung A golden shower from heights cerulean. Crumbled […]...
5. John Keats Who killed John Keats? ‘I,’ says the Quarterly, So savage and Tartarly; ”Twas one of my feats.’ Who shot the arrow? ‘The poet-priest Milman (So ready to kill man), Or Southey or Barrow.’...
6. On Receiving a Crown of Ivy from John Keats It is a lofty feeling, yet a kind, Thus to be topped with leaves; to have a sense Of honour-shaded thought, an influence As from great nature’s fingers, and be twined With her old, sacred, verdurous ivy-bind, As though she hallowed with that sylvan fence A head that bows to her benevolence, Midst pomp of […]...
7. The Eve of Crecy Gold on her head, and gold on her feet, And gold where the hems of her kirtle meet, And a golden girdle round my sweet; Ah! qu’elle est belle La Marguerite. Margaret’s maids are fair to see, Freshly dress’d and pleasantly; Margaret’s hair falls down to her knee; Ah! qu’elle est belle La Marguerite. If […]...
8. The Sunset Years of Samuel Shy Master I may be, But not of my fate. Now come the kisses, too many too late. Tell me, O Parcae, For fain would I know, Where were these kisses three decades ago? Girls there were plenty, Mint julep girls, beer girls, Gay younger married and headstrong career girls, The girls of my friends And […]...
9. Alone The abode of the nightingale is bare, Flowered frost congeals in the gelid air, The fox howls from his frozen lair: Alas, my loved one is gone, I am alone: It is winter. Once the pink cast a winy smell, The wild bee hung in the hyacinth bell, Light in effulgence of beauty fell: I […]...
10. Keats The melancholy gift Aurora gained From Jove, that her sad lover should not see The face of death, no goddess asked for thee, My Keats! But when the crimson blood-drop stained Thy pillow, thou didst read the fate ordained, Brief life, wild love, a flight of poesy! And then, a shadow fell on Italy: Thy […]...
11. Parable Of The Four-Poster Because she wants to touch him, She moves away. Because she wants to talk to him, She keeps silent. Because she wants to kiss him, She turns away & kisses a man she does not want to kiss. He watches Thinking she does not want him. He listens Hearing her silence. He turns away Thinking […]...
12. So, so, rock-a-by so! So, so, rock-a-by so! Off to the garden where dreamikins grow; And here is a kiss on your winkyblink eyes, And here is a kiss on your dimpledown cheek And here is a kiss for the treasure that lies In the beautiful garden way up in the skies Which you seek. Now mind these three […]...
13. Ode for the Keats Centenary The Muse is stern unto her favoured sons, Giving to some the keys of all the joy Of the green earth, but holding even that joy Back from their life; Bidding them feed on hope, A plant of bitter growth, Deep-rooted in the past; Truth, ’tis a doubtful art To make Hope sweeten Time as […]...
14. ON FIRST READING JOHN GOODBY'S 'IRISH POETRY SINCE 1950&#039 Barbarous insult to Yeats’ memory and Claudel’s Allen, thank God you are dead, you who breathed the air of Apollinaire, Ghost of Reverdy bear witness to the mendacity of his clamour, Hart Crane, rise from the estuary of the great river you drowned in, John Clare, rise from your country churchyard grave, Gray, from your […]...
15. 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 the damp freshness of the morning earth Was full of pungent sweetness and thy song? Who followed over moss and twisted […]...
16. TO HIS PECULIAR FRIEND, MR JOHN WICKS Since shed or cottage I have none, I sing the more, that thou hast one; To whose glad threshold, and free door I may a Poet come, though poor; And eat with thee a savoury bit, Paying but common thanks for it. Yet should I chance, my Wicks, to see An over-leaven look in thee, […]...
17. The Seven Ages of Wise Parliament’s a stage, And all the Politicians merely players! They have their exits and entrances, And Wise doth in his time play many parts, His acts being seven changes. First the Runner, With spiked shoe he spurns the cinder track, And just for once runs straight. The next the Student, Burning the midnight oil with […]...
18. On John Dawson, Butler Of C. C Dawson the Butler’s dead: Although I think Poets were ne’er infusde with single drinke Ile spend a farthing muse; some watry verse Will serve the turne to cast upon his hearse; If any cannot weepe amongst us here Take off his pott, and so squeeze out a tear: Weepe, O his cheeses, weepe till yee […]...
19. For Siggy & Bill I awoke with two poets in my bed, Books I chose from the library, possibly Intent on a swift read while schmoosing For poetic leads. My motives are appallingly Plain, a head bereft of fine ideas although Biographies are not an easy reading. I picked Siegfried Sassoon instinctively (not For any cogent reasons, I liked […]...
20. HAPPINESS AND VISION TOGETHER at the altar we In vision oft were seen by thee, Thyself as bride, as bridegroom I. Oft from thy mouth full many a kiss In an unguarded hour of bliss I then would steal, while none were by. The purest rapture we then knew, The joy those happy hours gave too, When tasted, […]...
21. John Skelton What could be dafter Than John Skelton’s laughter? What sound more tenderly Than his pretty poetry? So where to rank old Skelton? He was no monstrous Milton, Nor wrote no “Paradise Lost,” So wondered at by most, Phrased so disdainfully, Composed so painfully. He struck what Milton missed, Milling an English grist With homely turn […]...
22. The Grave Of Keats Rid of the world’s injustice, and his pain, He rests at last beneath God’s veil of blue: Taken from life when life and love were new The youngest of the martyrs here is lain, Fair as Sebastian, and as early slain. No cypress shades his grave, no funeral yew, But gentle violets weeping with the […]...
23. Keats The young Endymion sleeps Endymion’s sleep; The shepherd-boy whose tale was left half told! The solemn grove uplifts its shield of gold To the red rising moon, and loud and deep The nightingale is singing from the steep; It is midsummer, but the air is cold; Can it be death? Alas, beside the fold A […]...
24. John Rouat the Fisherman Margaret Simpson was the daughter of humble parents in the county of Ayr, With a comely figure, and face of beauty rare, And just in the full bloom of her womanhood, Was united to John Rouat, a fisherman good. John’s fortune consisted of his coble, three oars, and his fishing-gear, Besides his two stout boys, […]...
25. All the World's a Stage All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms. Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning […]...
26. Rome at the Pyramid of Cestius Near the Graves of Shelley and Keats Who, then, was Cestius, And what is he to me? – Amid thick thoughts and memories multitudinous One thought alone brings he. I can recall no word Of anything he did; For me he is a man who died and was interred To leave a pyramid Whose purpose was exprest Not with its first design, […]...
27. HIS AGE:DEDICATED TO HIS PECULIAR FRIEND, MR JOHN WICKES, UNDER THE NAME OFPOSTUMUS Ah, Posthumus! our years hence fly And leave no sound: nor piety, Or prayers, or vow Can keep the wrinkle from the brow; But we must on, As fate does lead or draw us; none, None, Posthumus, could e’er decline The doom of cruel Proserpine. The pleasing wife, the house, the ground Must all be […]...
28. Tournesol La voyageuse qui traverse les Halles à la tombée de l’été Marchait sur la pointe des pieds Le désespoir roulait au ciel ses grands arums si beaux Et dans le sac à main il y avait mon rêve ce flacon de sels Que seule a respiré la marraine de Dieu Les torpeurs se déployaient comme […]...
29. What the Bee Is To the Floweret What the bee is to the floweret, When he looks for honey-dew, Through the leaves that close embower it, That, my love, I’ll be to you. She. What the bank, with verdure glowing, Is to waves that wander near, Whispering kisses, while they’re going, That I’ll be to you, my dear. She. But they say, […]...
30. The Angel's Kiss An angel stood beside the bed Where lay the living and the dead. He gave the mother her who died A kiss that Christ the Crucified Had sent to greet the weary soul When, worn and faint, it reached its goal. He gave the infant kisses twain, One on the breast, one on the brain. […]...
31. To the Muse Resign the rhapsody, the dream, To men of larger reach; Be ours the quest of a plain theme, The piety of speech. As monkish scribes from morning break Toiled till the close of light, Nor thought a day too long to make One line or letter bright: We also with an ardent mind, Time, wealth, […]...
32. Recall WHAT call may draw thee back again, Lost dove, what art, what charm may please? The tender touch, the kiss, are vain, For thou wert lured away by these. Oh, must we use the iron hand, And mask with hate the holy breath, With alien voice give love’s command, As they through love the call […]...
33. The Ships of Saint John Where are the ships I used to know, That came to port on the Fundy tide Half a century ago, In beauty and stately pride? In they would come past the beacon light, With the sun on gleaming sail and spar, Folding their wings like birds in flight From countries strange and far. Schooner and […]...
34. Babette My Lady is dancing so lightly, The belle of the Embassy Ball; I lied as I kissed her politely, And hurried away from it all. I’m taxiing up to Montmartre, With never a pang of regret, To toy for awhile with the garter Of her whom I know as Babette. My Lady’s an exquisite creature, […]...
35. Ode to Pity 1 Ever musing I delight to tread The Paths of honour and the Myrtle Grove Whilst the pale Moon her beams doth shed On disappointed Love. While Philomel on airy hawthorn Bush Sings sweet and Melancholy, And the thrush Converses with the Dove. 2 Gently brawling down the turnpike road, Sweetly noisy falls the Silent […]...
36. Mystery Now I am all One bowl of kisses, Such as the tall Slim votaresses Of Egypt filled For a God’s excesses. I lift to you My bowl of kisses, And through the temple’s Blue recesses Cry out to you In wild caresses. And to my lips’ Bright crimson rim The passion slips, And down my […]...
37. Apparition La lune s’attristait. Des sйraphins en pleurs Rкvant, l’archet aux doigts, dans le calme des fleurs Vaporeuses, tiraient de mourantes violes De blancs sanglots glissant sur l’azur des corolles. -C’йtait le jour bйni de ton premier baiser. Ma songerie aimant а me martyriser S’enivrait savamment du parfum de tristesse Que mкme sans regret et sans […]...
38. I Love You I love your lips when they’re wet with wine And red with a wild desire; I love your eyes when the lovelight lies Lit with a passionate fire. I love your arms when the warm white flesh Touches mine in a fond embrace; I love your hair when the strands enmesh Your kisses against my […]...
39. Unlyric Love Song It is time to give that-of-myself which I could not at first: To offer you now at last my least and my worst: Minor, absurd preserves, The shell’s end-curves, A document kept at the back of a drawer, A tin hidden under the floor, Recalcitrant prides and hesitations: To pile them carefully in a desparate […]...
40. An Exhortation Chameleons feed on light and air: Poets’ food is love and fame: If in this wide world of care Poets could but find the same With as little toil as they, Would they ever change their hue As the light chameleons do, Suiting it to every ray Twenty times a day? Poets are on this […]...