Poem – Fancy – John Keats 

Ever let the Fancy roam, 

Pleasure never is at home: 

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, 

Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; 

Then let winged Fancy wander 

Through the thought still spread beyond her: 

Open wide the mind’s cage-door, 

She’ll dart forth, and cloudward soar. 

O sweet Fancy! let her loose; 

Summer’s joys are spoilt by use, 

And the enjoying of the Spring 

Fades as does its blossoming; 

Autumn’s red-lipp’d fruitage too, 

Blushing through the mist and dew, 

Cloys with tasting: What do then? 

Sit thee by the ingle, when 

The sear faggot blazes bright, 

Spirit of a winter’s night; 

When the soundless earth is muffled, 

And the caked snow is shuffled 

From the ploughboy’s heavy shoon; 

When the Night doth meet the Noon 

In a dark conspiracy 

To banish Even from her sky. 

Sit thee there, and send abroad, 

With a mind self-overaw’d, 

Fancy, high-commission’d:–send her! 

She has vassals to attend her: 

She will bring, in spite of frost, 

Beauties that the earth hath lost; 

She will bring thee, all together, 

All delights of summer weather; 

All the buds and bells of May, 

From dewy sward or thorny spray; 

All the heaped Autumn’s wealth, 

With a still, mysterious stealth: 

She will mix these pleasures up 

Like three fit wines in a cup, 

And thou shalt quaff it:–thou shalt hear 

Distant harvest-carols clear; 

Rustle of the reaped corn; 

Sweet birds antheming the morn: 

And, in the same moment, hark! 

‘Tis the early April lark, 

Or the rooks, with busy caw, 

Foraging for sticks and straw. 

Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 

The daisy and the marigold; 

White-plum’d lillies, and the first 

Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; 

Shaded hyacinth, alway 

Sapphire queen of the mid-May; 

And every leaf, and every flower 

Pearled with the self-same shower. 

Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep 

Meagre from its celled sleep; 

And the snake all winter-thin 

Cast on sunny bank its skin; 

Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see 

Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, 

When the hen-bird’s wing doth rest 

Quiet on her mossy nest; 

Then the hurry and alarm 

When the bee-hive casts its swarm; 

Acorns ripe down-pattering, 

While the autumn breezes sing. 
Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose; 

Every thing is spoilt by use: 

Where’s the cheek that doth not fade, 

Too much gaz’d at? Where’s the maid 

Whose lip mature is ever new? 

Where’s the eye, however blue, 

Doth not weary? Where’s the face 

One would meet in every place? 

Where’s the voice, however soft, 

One would hear so very oft? 

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 

Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. 

Let, then, winged Fancy find 

Thee a mistress to thy mind: 

Dulcet-ey’d as Ceres’ daughter, 

Ere the God of Torment taught her 

How to frown and how to chide; 

With a waist and with a side 

White as Hebe’s, when her zone 

Slipt its golden clasp, and down 

Fell her kirtle to her feet, 

While she held the goblet sweet 

And Jove grew languid.–Break the mesh 

Of the Fancy’s silken leash; 

Quickly break her prison-string 

And such joys as these she’ll bring.– 

Let the winged Fancy roam, 

Pleasure never is at home.

Poem – Bright Star – John Keats

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art– 

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night 

And watching, with eternal lids apart, 

Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite, 

The moving waters at their priestlike task 

Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores, 

Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask 

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors– 

No–yet still stedfast, still unchangeable, 

Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast, 

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, 

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, 

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, 

And so live ever–or else swoon to death.

Poem – A Party of Lovers – John Keats

Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes, Nibble their toast, and cool their tea with sighs, 

Or else forget the purpose of the night, 

Forget their tea — forget their appetite. 

See with cross’d arms they sit — ah! happy crew, 

The fire is going out and no one rings 

For coals, and therefore no coals Betty brings. 

A fly is in the milk-pot — must he die 

By a humane society? 

No, no; there Mr. Werter takes his spoon, 

Inserts it, dips the handle, and lo! soon 

The little straggler, sav’d from perils dark, 

Across the teaboard draws a long wet mark. 

Arise! take snuffers by the handle, 

There’s a large cauliflower in each candle. 

A winding-sheet, ah me! I must away 

To No. 7, just beyond the circus gay. 

‘Alas, my friend! your coat sits very well; 

Where may your tailor live?’ ‘I may not tell. 

O pardon me — I’m absent now and then. 

Where might my tailor live? I say again 

I cannot tell, let me no more be teaz’d — 

He lives in Wapping, might live where he pleas’d.’

Poem – A Draught of Sunshine – John Keats. 

Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port, Away with old Hock and madeira, 

Too earthly ye are for my sport; 

There’s a beverage brighter and clearer. 

Instead of a piriful rummer, 

My wine overbrims a whole summer; 

My bowl is the sky, 

And I drink at my eye, 

Till I feel in the brain 

A Delphian pain – 

Then follow, my Caius! then follow: 

On the green of the hill 

We will drink our fill 

Of golden sunshine, 

Till our brains intertwine 

With the glory and grace of Apollo! 

God of the Meridian, 

And of the East and West, 

To thee my soul is flown, 

And my body is earthward press’d. – 

It is an awful mission, 

A terrible division; 

And leaves a gulph austere 

To be fill’d with worldly fear. 

Aye, when the soul is fled 

To high above our head, 

Affrighted do we gaze 

After its airy maze, 

As doth a mother wild, 

When her young infant child 

Is in an eagle’s claws – 

And is not this the cause 

Of madness? – God of Song, 

Thou bearest me along 

Through sights I scarce can bear: 

O let me, let me share 

With the hot lyre and thee, 

The staid Philosophy. 

Temper my lonely hours, 

And let me see thy bowers 

More unalarm’d!