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Best Famous John Keats Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous John Keats poems. This is a select list of the best famous John Keats poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous John Keats poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of john keats poems.

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Written by John Keats | |

Ode on a Grecian Urn

THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness  
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time  
Sylvan historian who canst thus express 
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: 
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 5 
Of deities or mortals or of both  
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? 
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? 
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? 
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 10 

Heard melodies are sweet but those unheard 
Are sweeter; therefore ye soft pipes play on; 
Not to the sensual ear but more endear'd  
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: 
Fair youth beneath the trees thou canst not leave 15 
Thy song nor ever can those trees be bare; 
Bold Lover never never canst thou kiss  
Though winning near the goal¡ªyet do not grieve; 
She cannot fade though thou hast not thy bliss  
For ever wilt thou love and she be fair! 20 

Ah happy happy boughs! that cannot shed 
Your leaves nor ever bid the Spring adieu; 
And happy melodist unweari¨¨d  
For ever piping songs for ever new; 
More happy love! more happy happy love! 25 
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd  
For ever panting and for ever young; 
All breathing human passion far above  
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd  
A burning forehead and a parching tongue.
30 Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar O mysterious priest Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea-shore 35 Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel Is emptied of its folk this pious morn? And little town thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate can e'er return.
40 O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou silent form! dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! 45 When old age shall this generation waste Thou shalt remain in midst of other woe Than ours a friend to man to whom thou say'st 'Beauty is truth truth beauty ¡ªthat is all Ye know on earth and all ye need to know.
' 50


Written by John Keats | |

When I have Fears that I may cease to be

WHEN I have fears that I may cease to be 
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain  
Before high pil`d books in charact'ry  
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain; 
When I behold upon the night's starr'd face 5 
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance  
And feel that I may never live to trace 
Their shadows with the magic hand of chance; 
And when I feel fair creature of an hour! 
That I shall never look upon thee more 10 
Never have relish in the faery power 
Of unreflecting love;¡ªthen on the shore 
Of the wide world I stand alone and think  
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.


Written by John Keats | |

To Sleep

O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight! 
Shutting with careful fingers and benign 
Our gloom-pleased eyes embower'd from the light  
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine; 
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee close 5 
In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes  
Or wait the amen ere thy poppy throws 
Around my bed its lulling charities; 
Then save me or the pass¨¨d day will shine 
Upon my pillow breeding many woes; 10 
Save me from curious conscience that still lords 
Its strength for darkness burrowing like a mole; 
Turn the key deftly in the oil¨¨d wards  
And seal the hush¨¨d casket of my soul.


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Written by John Keats | |

Last Sonnet

BRIGHT Star! would I were steadfast as thou art¡ª 
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 priest-like task 5 
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores  
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask 
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors¡ª 
No¡ªyet still steadfast still unchangeable  
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast 10 
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¡ªor else swoon to death.


Written by John Keats | |

To Autumn

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness! 
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; 
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees 5 
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 10 
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 15 Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep Drowsed with the fume of poppies while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twin¨¨d flowers; And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; 20 Or by a cider-press with patient look Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay where are they? Think not of them thou hast thy music too ¡ª While barr¨¨d clouds bloom the soft-dying day 25 And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 30 Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.


Written by John Keats | |

La Belle Dame sans Merci

'O WHAT can ail thee knight-at-arms  
Alone and palely loitering? 
The sedge is wither'd from the lake  
And no birds sing.
'O what can ail thee knight-at-arms 5 So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full And the harvest 's done.
'I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever dew; 10 And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too.
' 'I met a lady in the meads Full beautiful¡ªa faery's child Her hair was long her foot was light 15 And her eyes were wild.
'I made a garland for her head And bracelets too and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love And made sweet moan.
20 'I set her on my pacing steed And nothing else saw all day long For sideways would she lean and sing A faery's song.
'She found me roots of relish sweet 25 And honey wild and manna dew And sure in language strange she said I love thee true! 'She took me to her elfin grot And there she wept and sigh'd fill sore; 30 And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four.
'And there she lull¨¨d me asleep And there I dream'd¡ªAh! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dream'd 35 On the cold hill's side.
'I saw pale kings and princes too Pale warriors death-pale were they all; They cried¡ª"La belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!" 40 'I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gap¨¨d wide And I awoke and found me here On the cold hill's side.
'And this is why I sojourn here 45 Alone and palely loitering Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake And no birds sing.
'


Written by John Keats | |

Ode on Melancholy

NO no! go not to Lethe neither twist 
Wolf's-bane tight-rooted for its poisonous wine; 
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kist 
By nightshade ruby grape of Proserpine; 
Make not your rosary of yew-berries 5 
Nor let the beetle nor the death-moth be 
Your mournful Psyche nor the downy owl 
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; 
For shade to shade will come too drowsily  
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
10 But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud That fosters the droop-headed flowers all And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose 15 Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave Or on the wealth of glob¨¨d peonies; Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows Emprison her soft hand and let her rave And feed deep deep upon her peerless eyes.
20 She dwells with Beauty¡ªBeauty that must die; And Joy whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: Ay in the very temple of Delight 25 Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
30


Written by John Keats | |

Stanzas

IN a drear-nighted December  
Too happy happy tree  
Thy branches ne'er remember 
Their green felicity: 
The north cannot undo them 5 
With a sleety whistle through them; 
Nor frozen thawings glue them 
From budding at the prime.
In a drear-nighted December Too happy happy brook 10 Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look; But with a sweet forgetting They stay their crystal fretting Never never petting 15 About the frozen time.
Ah! would 'twere so with many A gentle girl and boy! But were there ever any Writhed not at pass¨¨d joy? 20 To know the change and feel it When there is none to heal it Nor numb¨¨d sense to steal it Was never said in rhyme.


Written by John Keats | |

On first looking into Chapmans Homer

MUCH have I travell'd in the realms of gold  
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; 
Round many western islands have I been 
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 5 That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne: Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; 10 Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific¡ªand all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise¡ª Silent upon a peak in Darien.


Written by John Keats | |

Ode to Psyche

O GODDESS! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung 
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, 
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung 
Even into thine own soft-conch¨¨d ear: 
Surely I dream'd to-day, or did I see 5 
The wing¨¨d Psyche with awaken'd eyes? 
I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, 
And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, 
Saw two fair creatures, couch¨¨d side by side 
In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof 10 
Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran 
A brooklet, scarce espied: 
'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed, 
Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian 
They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass; 15 
Their arms embrac¨¨d, and their pinions too; 
Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu, 
As if disjoin¨¨d by soft-handed slumber, 
And ready still past kisses to outnumber 
At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: 20 
The wing¨¨d boy I knew; 
But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove? 
His Psyche true! 

O latest-born and loveliest vision far 
Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy! 25 
Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star, 
Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; 
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, 
Nor altar heap'd with flowers; 
Nor Virgin-choir to make delicious moan 30 
Upon the midnight hours; 
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet 
From chain-swung censer teeming; 
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat 
Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
35 O brightest! though too late for antique vows, Too, too late for the fond believing lyre, When holy were the haunted forest boughs, Holy the air, the water, and the fire; Yet even in these days so far retired 40 From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, Fluttering among the faint Olympians, I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan Upon the midnight hours; 45 Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet From swing¨¨d censer teeming: Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane 50 In some untrodden region of my mind, Where branch¨¨d thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees Fledge the wild-ridg¨¨d mountains steep by steep; 55 And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep; And in the midst of this wide quietness A rosy sanctuary will I dress With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain, 60 With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same; And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, 65 A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in!


Written by James Henry Leigh Hunt | |

On Receiving a Crown of Ivy from John Keats

 It is a lofty feeling, yet a kind, 
Thus to be topped with leaves;--to have a sense 
Of honour-shaded thought,--an influence 
As from great nature's fingers, and be twined 
With her old, sacred, verdurous ivy-bind, 
As though she hallowed with that sylvan fence 
A head that bows to her benevolence, 
Midst pomp of fancied trumpets in the wind.
It is what's within us crowned.
And kind and great Are all the conquering wishes it inspires, Love of things lasting, love of the tall woods, Love of love's self, and ardour for a state Of natural good befitting such desires, Towns without gain, and hunted solitudes.


Written by Dorothy Parker | |

A Pigs-Eye View Of Literature

 The Lives and Times of John Keats,
Percy Bysshe Shelley, and
George Gordon Noel, Lord Byron

Byron and Shelley and Keats
Were a trio of Lyrical treats.
The forehead of Shelley was cluttered with curls, And Keats never was a descendant of earls, And Byron walked out with a number of girls, But it didn't impair the poetical feats Of Byron and Shelley, Of Byron and Shelley, Of Byron and Shelley and Keats.


Written by Robert William Service | |

What Kisses Had John Keats?

 I scanned two lines with some surmise
As over Keats I chanced to pore:
'And there I shut her wild, wild eyes
 With kisses four.
' Says I: 'Why was it only four, Not five or six or seven? I think I would have made it more,-- Even eleven.
'Gee! If she'd lured a guy like me Into her gelid grot I'd make that Belle Dame sans Merci Sure kiss a lot.
'Them poets have their little tricks; I think John counted kisses for, Not two or three or five or six To rhyme with "sore.
"'


Written by Amy Lowell | |

To John Keats

 Great master! Boyish, sympathetic man!
Whose orbed and ripened genius lightly hung
From life's slim, twisted tendril and there swung
In crimson-sphered completeness; guardian
Of crystal portals through whose openings fan
The spiced winds which blew when earth was young,
Scattering wreaths of stars, as Jove once flung
A golden shower from heights cerulean.
Crumbled before thy majesty we bow.
Forget thy empurpled state, thy panoply Of greatness, and be merciful and near; A youth who trudged the highroad we tread now Singing the miles behind him; so may we Faint throbbings of thy music overhear.


Written by Bliss Carman | |

By the Aurelian Wall

 In Memory of John Keats
By the Aurelian Wall,
Where the long shadows of the centuries fall
From Caius Cestius' tomb,
A weary mortal seeking rest found room
For quiet burial,
Leaving among his friends
A book of lyrics.
Such untold amends A traveller might make In a strange country, bidden to partake Before he farther wends; Who slyly should bestow The foreign reed-flute they had seen him blow And finger cunningly, On one of the dark children standing by, Then lift his cloak and go.
The years pass.
And the child Thoughtful beyond his fellows, grave and mild, Treasures the rough-made toy, Until one day he blows it for clear joy, And wakes the music wild.
His fondness makes it seem A thing first fashioned in delirious dream, Some god had cut and tried, And filled with yearning passion, and cast aside On some far woodland stream,-- After long years to be Found by the stranger and brought over sea, A marvel and delight To ease the noon and pierce the dark blue night, For children such as he.
He learns the silver strain Wherewith the ghostly houses of gray rain And lonely valleys ring, When the untroubled whitethroats make the spring A world without a stain; Then on his river reed, With strange and unsuspected notes that plead Of their own wild accord For utterances no bird's throat could afford, Lifts it to human need.
His comrades leave their play, When calling and compelling far away By river-slope and hill, He pipes their wayward footsteps where he will, All the long lovely day.
Even his elders come.
"Surely the child is elvish," murmur some, And shake the knowing head; "Give us the good old simple things instead, Our fathers used to hum.
" Others at open door Smile when they hear what they have hearkened for These many summers now, Believing they should live to learn somehow Things never known before.
But he can only tell How the flute's whisper lures him with a spell, Yet always just eludes The lost perfection over which he broods; And how he loves it well.
Till all the country-side, Familiar with his piping far and wide, Has taken for its own That weird enchantment down the evening blown,-- Its glory and its pride.
And so his splendid name, Who left the book of lyrics and small fame Among his fellows then, Spreads through the world like autumn--who knows when?-- Till all the hillsides flame.
Grand Pré and Margaree Hear it upbruited from the unresting sea; And the small Gaspereau, Whose yellow leaves repeat it, seems to know A new felicity.
Even the shadows tall, Walking at sundown through the plain, recall A mound the grasses keep, Where once a mortal came and found long sleep By the Aurelian Wall.