Poems
by
John Keats
Table of Contents
ON A DREAM
TO AILSA ROCK
FOR THERE’S BISHOP’S TEIGN
CHARACTER OF CHARLES BROWN
ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN’S HOMER
THE DAY IS GONE, AND ALL ITS SWEETS ARE GONE!
ENDYMION: A POETIC ROMANCE
THE EVE OF SAINT MARK
WHEN I HAVE FEARS THAT I MAY CEASE TO BE
HYPERION
I STOOD TIP-TOE UPON A LITTLE HILL
ISABELLA; OR, THE POT OF BASIL
ON SITTING DOWN TO READ KING LEAR ONCE AGAIN
LINES RHYMED IN A LETTER FROM OXFORD
LAMIA
HOW MANY BARDS GILD THE LAPSES OF TIME!
DEDICATION [OF POEMS, 1817] TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ.
TO ONE WHO HAS BEEN LONG IN CITY PENT
A SONG ABOUT MYSELF
ODE (“BARDS OF PASSION AND OF MIRTH”)
ODE ON INDOLENCE
ODE ON MELANCHOLY
ODE TO PSYCHE
OVER THE HILL AND OVER THE DALE
TRANSLATED FROM RONSARD
SLEEP AND POETRY
CHAUCER
O SOLITUDE! IF I MUST WITH THEE DWELL
IMITATION OF SPENSER
STANZAS (“IN DREAR-NIGHTED DECEMBER”)
THE POET: A FRAGMENT
TO — (“WHAT CAN I DO TO DRIVE AWAY”)
TO HOMER
TO SLEEP
ON VISITING THE TOMB OF BURNS
WHY DID I LAUGH TO-NIGHT? NO VOICE WILL TELL
ON A DREAM
As Hermes once took to his feathers light
When lulled Argus, baffled, swoon’d and slept,
So on a Delphic reed my idle spright
So play’d, so charm’d, so conquer’d, so bereft
The dragon-world of all its hundred eyes,
And, seeing it asleep, so fled away:
Not to pure Ida with its snow-cold skies,
Nor unto Tempe where Jove griev’d a day;
But to that second circle of sad hell,
Where ‘mid the gust, the whirlwind, and the flaw
Of rain and hail-stones, lovers need not tell
Their sorrows. Pale were the sweet lips I saw,
Pale were the lips I kiss’d, and fair the form
I floated with, about that melancholy storm.
TO AILSA ROCK
Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid!
Give answer from thy voice, the sea-fowls’ screams!
When were thy shoulders mantled in huge streams?
When from the sun was thy broad forehead hid?
How long is’t since the mighty Power bid
Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreams?
Sleep in the lap of thunder or sunbeams,
Or when grey clouds are thy cold coverlid?
Thou answer’st not, for thou art dead asleep;
Thy life is but two dead eternities —
The last in air, the former in the deep;
First with the whales, last with the eagle-skies —
Drown’d wast thou till an earthquake made thee steep,
Another cannot wake thy giant size.
FOR THERE’S BISHOP’S TEIGN (By Keats)
Thursday, October 2, 2008
I.
For there’s Bishop’s teignAnd King’s teign
And Coomb at the clear Teign head —
WYou may have your cream
All spread upon barley bread.
here close by the stream
II.
There’s Arch Brook
And there’s Larch Brook
Both turning many a mill,
And cooling the drouth
Of the salmon’s mouth
And fattening his silver gill.
III.
There is Wild Wood,
A mild hood
To the sheep on the lea o’ the down,
Where the golden furze,
With its green, thin spurs,
Doth catch at the maiden’s gown.
IV.
There is Newton Marsh
With its spear grass harsh —A pleasant summer levelWhere the maidens sweetOf the Market StreetDo meet in the dusk to revel.
V.There’s the Barton richWith dyke and ditchAnd hedge for the thrush to live in,And the hollow treeFor the buzzing beeAnd a bank for the wasp to hive in.
VI.And O, andThe daisies blowAnd the primroses are waken’d,And violets whiteSit in silver plight,And the green bud’s as long as the spike end.
VII.Then who would goInto dark SohoAnd chatter with dack’d-hair’d critics,When he can stayFor the new-mown hayAnd startle the dappled prickets?
CHARACTER OF CHARLES BROWNI.He is to weet a melancholy carle:Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hairAs hath the seeded thistle when in parleIt holds the Zephyr, ere it sendeth fairIts light balloons into the summer air;Therto his beard had not begun to bloom,No brush had touch’d his chin or razor sheer;No care had touch’d his cheek with mortal doom,But new he was and bright as scarf from Persian loom.
II.Ne cared he for wine, or half-and-half;Ne cared he for fish or flesh or fowl,And sauces held he worthless as the chaff,He ‘sdeigned the swine-head at the wassail-bowl;Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl,Ne with sly Lemans in the scorner’s chair;But after water-brooks this Pilgrim’s soulPanted, and all his food was woodland airThough he would oft-times feast on gilliflowers rare.
III.The slang of cities in no wise he knew,Tipping the wink to him was heathen Greek;He sipp’d no olden Tom or ruin blue,Or nantz or cherry-brandy drank full meekBy many a damsel hoarse and rouge of cheek;Nor did he know each aged watchman’s beat,Nor in obscured purlieus would he seekFor curled Jewesses with ankles neat,Who as they walk abroad make tinkling with their feet.
ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN’S HOMERMuch have I travell’d in the realms of gold,And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;Round many western islands have I beenWhich bards in fealty to Apollo hold.Oft of one wide expanse had I been toldThat deep-brow’d Homer ruled as his demesne;Yet did I never breathe its pure sereneTill I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:Then felt I like some watcher of the skiesWhen a new planet swims into his ken;Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyesHe star’d at the Pacific — and all his menLook’d at each other with a wild surmise —Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
