John Keats (1795–1821).  Poetical Works.  1884.

Index of First Lines

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever
As late I rambled in the happy fields
Asleep! O sleep a little while, white pearl!

Bards of Passion and of Mirth
Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art

Deep in the shady sadness of a vale

Ever let the Fancy roam

Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel!
Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy
Four Seasons fill the measure of the year
Full many a dreary hour have I past

Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
Glory and loveliness have passed away
Good Kosciusko, thy great name alone
Great spirits now on earth are sojourning

Had I a man’s fair form, then might my sighs
Hadst thou liv’d in days of old
Happy is England! I could be content
Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem
Highmindedness, a jealousy for good
How fever’d is the man, who cannot look
How many bards gild the lapses of time!

In a drear-nighted December
I Stood tip-toe upon a little hill

Just at the self-same beat of Time’s wide wings

Keen, fitful gusts are whisp’ring here and there

Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry
Love in a hut, with water and a crust

Many the wonders I this day have seen
Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold
Muse of my native land! loftiest Muse!
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
No! those days are gone away
Now Morning from her orient chamber came
Nymph of the downward smile, and sidelong glance

Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning
O goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell
O sovereign power of love! O grief! O balm!
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms

Poetry of earth is never dead, the

St. Agnes’ Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was!
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness
Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals
Souls of Poets dead and gone
Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong

There are who lord it o’er their fellow-men
Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness
Thus in alternate uproar and sad peace
To one who has been long in city pent

Upon a time, before the faery broods

What is more gentle than a wind in summer?
What though, for showing truth to flatter’d state
What though while the wonders of nature exploring
When by my solitary hearth I sit
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain

Young Calidore is paddling o’er the lake



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