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arms beauty beneath bliss blue breast breath bright clear close clouds cold cool dark dear death deep delight divine doth dream earth Endymion eyes face fair fear feel feet felt flowers forest gentle give golden gone green hair hand happy hast head hear heard heart heaven hope hour Keats keep kiss leaves light lips live look morning mortal never night o'er once pain pale pass passion pleasant pleasure poet poor rest rose round seen sense shade side sigh silent silver sing sleep smile soft song sorrow soul sound spirit stars stood strange streams sure sweet tears tell tender thee thine things thou thought thousand trees twas voice warm wide wild wind wings wonder young youth
Сторінка 279 - Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan...
Сторінка 280 - Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— To thy high requiem become a sod.
Сторінка 361 - My spirit is too weak — Mortality Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep, And each imagined pinnacle and steep Of godlike hardship tells me I must die Like a sick eagle looking at the sky. Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep That I have not the cloudy winds to keep Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye.
Сторінка ix - And strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tongue-tied by authority...
Сторінка 294 - To bend with apples the mossed 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'erbrimmed their clammy cells.
Сторінка 382 - 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!
Сторінка 194 - Of fruits and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, And diamonded with panes of quaint device, Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings; And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries, And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, A shielded scutcheon blush 'd with blood of queens and kings.
Сторінка 410 - Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors: — No — yet still steadfast, 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.