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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