JOHN KEATS

JOHN KEATS (1795-1821) 

TO AUTUMN 
        
1820 
    
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.



JOHN KEATS (1795-1821) 

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER 

       
1817     
          
Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, 
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He star'd at the Pacific--and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise--
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.


  
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,   
  Alone and palely loitering?   
The sedge has wither�d from the lake,   
  And no birds sing.   
   
II.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!           
  So haggard and so woe-begone?   
The squirrel�s granary is full,   
  And the harvest�s done.   
   
III.

I see a lily on thy brow   
  With anguish moist and fever dew,   
And on thy cheeks a fading rose   
  Fast withereth too.   
   
IV.

I met a lady in the meads,   
  Full beautiful�a faery�s child,   
Her hair was long, her foot was light,    
  And her eyes were wild.   
   
V.

I made a garland for her head,   
  And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;   
She look�d at me as she did love,   
  And made sweet moan.    
   
VI.

I set her on my pacing steed,   
  And nothing else saw all day long,   
For sidelong would she bend, and sing   
  A faery�s song.   
   
VII.

She found me roots of relish sweet,    
  And honey wild, and manna dew,   
And sure in language strange she said�   
  �I love thee true.�   
   
VIII.

She took me to her elfin grot,   
  And there she wept, and sigh�d fill sore,    
And there I shut her wild wild eyes   
  With kisses four.   
   
IX.

And there she lulled me asleep,   
  And there I dream�d�Ah! woe betide!   
The latest dream I ever dream�d    
  On the cold hill�s side.   
   
X.

I saw pale kings and princes too,   
  Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;   
They cried��La Belle Dame sans Merci   
  Hath thee in thrall!�    
   
XI.

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,   
  With horrid warning gaped wide,   
And I awoke and found me here,   
  On the cold hill�s side.   
   
XII.

And this is why I sojourn here,    
  Alone and palely loitering,   
Though the sedge is wither�d from the lake,   
  And no birds sing. 


The End