To Fanny Brawne, 1st July, 1819 Shanklin, Isle of Wight My dearest Lady: I am glad I had not an opportunity of sending off a letter which I wrote for you on Tuesday night - t'was too much like one out of Rousseau' Heloise. I am more reasonable this m...
Ode to Psyche O GODDESS! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, And pardon that thy secrets should be sung Even into thine own soft-conched ear: Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see The winged Psyche with awaken...
To Sleep O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight! Shutting with careful fingers and benign Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower'd from the light, Enshaded in forgetfulness divine; O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close, In midst of this thine hymn, m...
Ode on a Grecian Urn THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities...
To George and Georgiana Keats, Friday 19th March 1819 (Cont.): I have been reading lately two very different books I have been reading lately two very different books Robertsons America and Voltaires Siecle De Louis XIV. It is like walking arm and ar...
Las Belle Dame Sans Merci O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge is witherd from the lake, And no birds sing. O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrels granary is full, And th...
Why Did I Laugh Tonight? No Voice Will Tell: Why did I laugh tonight? No voice will tell: No God, no Demon of severe response, Deigns to reply from Heaven or from Hell. Then to my human heart I turn at once. Heart! Thou and I are here, sad and alone;...
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...
To George and Georgiana Keats, Friday 19th March 1819 My dear brother and sister; This morning I am in a sort of temper indolent and supremely careless: I long after a stanza or two of Thompsons Castle of indolenceMy passions are all asleep from my h...
Ode to a Nightingale MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too hap...