Litscape.com
Classic Literature and
Word Tools
Home
New
Classic Authors
Modern Day Poets
Poems
Fables
Songs
Themes
Elements of Poetry
Word Tools
Litscapeart.com
Georgia O'Keeffe Gallery
Jessie Willcox Smith Gallery
Vincent Van Gogh Gallery
Pierre-Auguste Renoir Gallery
Michelangelo Gallery
John Keats
Oct. 31, 1795
to
Feb. 23, 1821
Titles
First Lines
Last Lines
The Life Of Keats (By James Russell Lowell)
Link To This Page
Share this page:
First Lines of John Keats
After dark vapors have oppress'd our plains
As Hermes once took to his feathers light,
As late I rambled in the happy fields,
Bards of Passion and of Mirth,
Blue! 'Tis the life of heaven, -- the domain
Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art!
Come hither, all sweet maidens soberly,
Ever let the Fancy roam,
Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy
Four seasons fill the measure of the year;
Fresh morning gusts have blown away all fear
Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
God of the golden bow,
Good Kosciusko! thy great name alone
Great spirits now on earth are sojourning:
Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs
Happy is England! I could be content
Haydon! forgive me that I cannot speak
Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid!
High-mindedness, a jealousy for good,
How fever'd is the man, who cannot look
How many bards gild the lapses of time!
Hush, hush! tread softly! hush, hush, my dear!
I cry your mercy -- pity -- love -- ay, love!
If by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd,
It keeps eternal whisperings around
Keen fitful gusts are whispering here and there
Many the wonders I this day have seen:
Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,
My spirit is too weak; mortality
No! those days are gone away,
No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
Nymph of the downward smile and sidelong glance!
O golden-tongued romance with serene lute!
O solitude! if I must with thee dwell,
O that a week could be an age, and we
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Oh! how I love, on a fair summer's eve,
Physician Nature! let my spirit blood!
Read me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loud
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Shed no tear! O shed no tear!
Small, busy flames play through the fresh-laid coals,
Soft embalmer of the still midnight!
Son of the old moon-mountains African!
Souls of poets dead and gone,
Standing aloof in giant ignorance,
The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
The poetry of earth is never dead:
This mortal body of a thousand days
This pleasant tale is like a little copse:
Time's sea hath been five years at its low ebb,
To one who has been long in city pent,
Unfelt, unheard, unseen,
What can I do to drive away
What is more gentle than a wind in summer?
What though, for showing truth to flatter'd state,
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Who loves to peer up at the morning sun,
Why did I laugh to-night? No voice will tell;