John Keats

That large utterance of the early gods!

Deep in the shady sadness of a vale Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star, Sat gray-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone, Still as the silence round about his lair; Forest on forest hung about …

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!"

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.

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.

O, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing.

So many, and so many, and such glee.

To Sorrow I bade good-morrow, And thought to leave her far away behind; But cheerly, cheerly, She loves me dearly; She is so constant to me, and so kind:

'Tis the pest Of love, that fairest joys give most unrest.

He ne'er is crown'd With immortality, who fears to follow Where airy voices lead.

Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain Clings cruelly to us.

My restless spirit never could endure To brood so long upon one luxury, Unless it did, though fearfully, espy A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.

the crown of these Is made of love and friendship, and sits high Upon the forehead of humanity.

Feel we these things? — that moment have we stept Into a sort of oneness, and our state Is like a floating spirit's.

Ghosts of melodious prophesyings rave Round every spot where trod Apollo's foot

Wherein lies happiness? In that which becks Our ready minds to fellowship divine, A fellowship with essence; till we shine, Full alchemiz'd, and free of space. Behold The clear religion of heaven!

Time, that aged nurse, Rocked me to patience.

O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth!

Nor do we merely feel these essences For one short hour; no, even as the trees That whisper round a temple become soon Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, The passion poesy, glories infinite, Haunt us till they become a cheering …

The grandeur of the dooms We have imagined for the mighty dead; All lovely tales that we have heard or read: An endless fountain of immortal drink, Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

In spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy; but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thicksighted: …

There is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object.