Georgia O'Keeffe Gallery Jessie Willcox Smith Gallery Vincent Van Gogh Gallery Pierre-Auguste Renoir Gallery Michelangelo Gallery

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;