Search Results for: poetry at work

< Return to All John Keats Ode to Psyche O Gooddess! hear these tunealess numbers, wrung By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, And pardon that thy secrets should be sung Even into thine own soft-conchèd ear: Surely I dream’d to-day, or did I see The wingèd Psyche with awaken’d eyes? I wander’d in a forest […]

< Return to All John Keats Ode on Melancholy No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kist By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; Make not your rosary of yew-berries, Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be Your mournful Psyche, nor […]

< Return to All John Keats Sharing Eve’s Apple O blush not so! O blush not so! Or I shall think you knowing; And if you smile the blushing while, Then maidenheads are going. There’s a blush for want, and a blush for shan’t, And a blush for having done it; There’s a blush for […]

< Return to All John Keats Robin Hood (To a Friend) No! those days are gone away And their hours are old and gray, And their minutes buried all Under the down-trodden pall Of the leaves of many years: Many times have winter’s shears, Frozen North, and chilling East, Sounded tempests to the feast Of […]

< Return to All John Keats Over the Hill and Over the Dale Over the hill and over the dale, And over the bourn to Dawlish — Where gingerbread wives have a scanty sale And gingerbread nuts are smallish. Rantipole Betty she ran down a hill And kicked up her petticoats fairly; Says I’ll be […]

< Return to All John Keats Modern Love And what is love? It is a doll dress’d up For idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle; A thing of soft misnomers, so divine That silly youth doth think to make itself Divine by loving, and so goes on Yawning and doting a whole summer long, Till […]

< Return to All John Keats Meg Merrilies Old Meg she was a Gipsy, And liv’d upon the Moors: Her bed it was the brown heath turf, And her house was out of doors. Her apples were swart blackberries, Her currants pods o’ broom; Her wine was dew of the wild white rose, Her book […]

< Return to All John Keats In Drear Nighted December In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne’er remember Their green felicity: The north cannot undo them, With a sleety whistle through them; Nor frozen thawings glue them From budding at the prime. In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy […]

< Return to All John Keats Imitation of Spenser Now Morning from her orient chamber came, And her first footsteps touch’d a verdant hill; Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame, Silv’ring the untainted gushes of its rill; Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distill, And after parting beds of simple flowers, By many […]

< Return to All John Keats I Stood Tiptoe Upon a Little Hill I stood tip-toe upon a little hill, The air was cooling, and so very still, That the sweet buds which with a modest pride Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems, Had not yet lost those […]