#johnkeats
Wanderer by moonlight, you never knew
That mellow autumn of elusive fame
Which you well-earned in your suffering youth
As you laboured in haste through hastening death
In haste to set in jeweled, sunlit lines
Each joyful day’s delight in nature and man
Before they faded into that long night -
You never knew what treasures you left to us
Then may your desperate pilgrimage to Rome
Lead you at last to more glorious Stairs
Feb 23, 2019
Feb 23, 2019 at 9:01 AM UTC
Hovering, its gentle, gleam a'glitter,
Sun rays hugging so daintily the plains of grass
That it could have been akin to quiet coveting
Of their transient green so far from its grasp
Then, as if in secret rising from the earth's coat,
From blades made chartreuse with sunset's caress,
There lifts a drunken, blanketed quiet that fill-
In preparation for the night- the land's every crevasse
Upon the branches arching, merging, enweaving,
Where the last few robins had been orchestrating,
The leaves give their tiny bodies up to the fading breeze;
A waltz so natural both need not bother hesitant contemplating
In dappling, splotching, sparks of amber scintillating a hue,
The trees too the sun embraces; the shades of sunlight
Creating a calico on its surface, still dull greens and greys amidst
Its autumn forgery, aureate bleeding bright
Nocturnal symphonies crescendo in harmonic chirps, croaks, and hoots;
As sunlight spools it's last golden threads to defy it's cruel god or master,
Who reigns, an even more kingly victory, wins last of battles, drags the sun down
To horizon's prison- subterranean capture.
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 11:52 AM UTC
I know for sure
That if the pretty poet had a life
So long as parrots,
This collection of poetry,
So small compared to others,
Would have been filled with soothing dreams,
Scented with the smell of sweet flowers
Growing in the wide meadows,
Where slender nymphs do live
And little nightingales,
Singing great songs.
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 3:12 PM UTC
The Poetry of John Keats is not Safe
You may find there “a cave of young earth dragons”
Or with a “sea-born goddess” fall in love
You might not escape “La Belle Dame Sans Merci”
Or finish reading all your “high-piled books”
Yet “tender is the night” when sings the nightingale
And you are shown that all “Beauty is truth”
Through your soul, “The wanderer by moonlight”
And there “like pious incense” the hours pass
Though in that “season of mists” one’s life must end
“Go not to Lethe,” but sail on with the wind
1 “Ben Nevis”
2 “Endymion”
3 “La Belle Dame Sans Merci”
4 “When I Have Fears that I may Cease to Be”
5 “Ode to a Nightingale”
6 “Ode on a Grecian Urn”
7 “I Stood Tip-Toe Upon a Little Hill”
8 “The Eve of Saint Agnes”
9 “To Autumn”
10 “Ode on Melancholy”
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 3:35 PM UTC
I have read your words, O Poet of Pain,
Their musicality is bliss to ears,
A taste of sweets to mind when each one hears
About the lonely stars, about the rain.
The urn, the nightingale have stayed the same,
Since the moment they were written down, fears
Of loss and of decay (because of years)
Are not to be found – nothing gone to vain.
Your life and sacred love is stated clearly,
For beauty and the truth, who I can see
Although, like springs, it's repeated and old.
O Bard of Bright Letters! I thank you dearly,
That you have written lines of poetry
To us and yourself; their worth 's more than gold.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 6:22 PM UTC
Some of you go so far as to disclaim any ability to find you, but I've got you.
(sonnet #MMDCCXCV)
Dare claim your writing does not breathe a strain
Of your dear essence: to be fooled. Thereby
Petrarca's soul distills its fervour aye;
And Wyatt cool good sense; while Surrey feign
With mildest touch and Spenser's pure refrain,
Sweet Shakespeare beauing hearts, dare cry
Amain. From Milton's kingly strength's reply
To Wordsworth's cold hauteur, yea come again?
Twas Samuel Taylor Coleridge roused me
To think afresh, his lively fancy through
Each line with his impress. From Shelley's plea
To Keats' indulgence, Missus Browning's blue
Yet mystic charm, don't think all cannot see.
You don't know me? But ah, I do know you.
31Aug13b
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 7:40 PM UTC
From this man I can see
That the word of the Truth,
Is a much better decree
Than the word of the sleuth.
Much like Keats I find the only raw and concrete
Are these all-knowing words.
These I cannot delete or defeat,
So I let them fly from me like birds.
I cannot exist without my words.
I believe this is my path,
And through the unknown woods
I let my pain fuel my wrath.
I cannot bear to think what this world will become
If we don’t follow our calling.
What would be of Keats, so glum,
Had he not written from what he was brawling?
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 9:02 PM UTC