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