Search Results for: poetry at work

< 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 […]

< Return to All John Keats I Had a Dove I had a dove, and the sweet dove died And I have thought it died of grieving; O what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied With a silken thread of my own hand’s weaving: Sweet little red feet! why would you die? Why […]

< Return to All John Keats Hymn to Apollo God of the golden bow, And of the golden lyre, And of the golden hair, And of the golden fire, Charioteer Of the patient year, Where—where slept thine ire, When like a blank idiot I put on thy wreath, Thy laurel, thy glory, The light of […]

< Return to All John Keats Hither, Hither, Love Hither hither, love— ‘Tis a shady mead— Hither, hither, love! Let us feed and feed! Hither, hither, sweet— ‘Tis a cowslip bed— Hither, hither, sweet! ‘Tis with dew bespread! Hither, hither, dear By the breath of life, Hither, hither, dear!— Be the summer’s wife! Though one […]