Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art— …
John Keats
I cry your mercy—pity—love!—aye, love! …
The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone! …
This living hand, now warm and capable …
Ever let the Fancy roam, …
BOOK I …
If by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd, …
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, …
Souls of Poets dead and gone, …
Old Meg she was a Gipsy, …
And what is love? It is a doll dress’d up …
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, …
One morn before me were three figures seen, …
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist …
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains …
O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung …
As Hermes once took to his feathers light, …
Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, …
My spirit is too weak—mortality …
O golden-tongued Romance with serene lute! …
The Poetry of earth is never dead: …
No! those days are gone away …
St. Agnes' Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was! …
Four Seasons fill the measure of the year; …
Had I a man’s fair form, then might my sighs …
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, …
I cry your mercy—pity—love! Aye, love! …
Standing aloof in giant ignorance, …
To one who has been long in city pent, …
O soft embalmer of the still midnight, …
When I have fears that I may cease to be …