Keat's Poetry: TO AUTUMN#2

  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.

Read More

Keat's Poetry: ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE#2

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been

    Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,

  Tasting of Flora and the country green,

    Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!

  O for a beaker full of the warm South,

    Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

      With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

          And purple-stained mouth;

    That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,

      And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Read More

Keat's Poetry: TO AUTUMN#1

 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.

Read More

Keat's Poetry: ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE #1

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 happy in thine happiness,—

      That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,

          In some melodious plot

    Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,

      Singest of summer in full-throated ease.     

Read More