The Complete Works of John Keats: Poems, Plays & Personal Letters. John Keats

Let us find out, if we must be constrain’d,

       Sandals more interwoven and complete

       To fit the naked foot of Poesy:

       Let us inspect the Lyre, and weigh the stress

       Of every chord, and see what may be gain’d

       By ear industrious, and attention meet;

       Misers of sound and syllable, no less Than Midas of his coinage, let us be

       Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown;

       So, if we may not let the Muse be free,

       She will be bound with garlands of her own.

      Sonnet to Chatterton

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      O Chatterton! how very sad thy fate!

       Dear child of sorrow - son of misery!

       How soon the film of death obscur’d that eye,

       Whence Genius mildly flash’d, and high debate.

       How soon that voice, majestic and elate,

       Melted in dying numbers! Oh! how nigh

       Was night to thy fair morning. Thou didst die

       A half-blown flow’ret which cold blasts amate.

       But this is past: thou art among the stars

       Of highest Heaven: to the rolling spheres Thou sweetly singest: naught thy hymning mars,

       Above the ingrate world and human fears.

       On earth the good man base detraction bars

       From thy fair name, and waters it with tears.

      Sonnet Written in Disgust of Vulgar Superstition

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      The church bells toll a melancholy round,

       Calling the people to some other prayers,

       Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares,

       More hearkening to the sermon’s horrid sound.

       Surely the mind of man is closely bound

       In some black spell; seeing that each one tears

       Himself from fireside joys, and Lydian airs,

       And converse high of those with glory crown’d.

       Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp, -

       A chill as from a tomb, did I not know That they are dying like an outburnt lamp;

       That ’tis their sighing, wailing ere they go

       Into oblivion; - that fresh flowers will grow,

       And many glories of immortal stamp.

      Sonnet: Why did I laugh tonight? No voice will tell

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      Why did I laugh tonight? No voice will tell:

       No God, no Demon of severe response,

       Deigns to reply from heaven or from hell.

       Then to my human heart I turn at once.

       Heart! Thou and I are here sad and alone;

       I say, why did I laugh! O mortal pain!

       O Darkness! Darkness! ever must I moan,

       To question Heaven and Hell and Heart in vain.

       Why did I laugh? I know this Being’s lease,

       My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads; Yet would I on this very midnight cease,

       And the world’s gaudy ensigns see in shreds;

       Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense indeed,

       But Death intenser - Death is Life’s high meed.

      Sonnet to a Cat

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      Cat! who hast pass’d thy grand climacteric,

       How many mice and rats hast in thy days

       Destroy’d? - How many tit bits stolen? Gaze

       With those bright languid segments green, and prick

       Those velvet ears - but pr’ythee do not stick

       Thy latent talons in me - and upraise

       Thy gentle mew - and tell me all thy frays

       Of fish and mice, and rats and tender chick.

       Nay, look not down, nor lick thy dainty wrists -

       For all the wheezy asthma, - and for all Thy tail’s tip is nick’d off - and though the fists

       Of many a maid have given thee many a maul,

       Still is that fur as soft as when the lists

       In youth thou enter’dst on glass bottled wall.

      Sonnet Written upon the Top of Ben Nevis

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      Read me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loud

       Upon the top of Nevis, blind in mist!

       I look into the chasms, and a shroud

       Vapourous doth hide them, - just so much I wist

       Mankind do know of hell; I look o’erhead,

       And there is sullen mist, - even so much

       Mankind can tell of heaven; mist is spread

       Before the earth, beneath me, - even such,

       Even so vague is man’s sight of himself!

       Here are the craggy stones beneath my feet, - Thus much I know that, a poor witless elf,

       I tread on them, - that all my eye doth meet

       Is mist and crag, not only on this height,

       But in the world of thought and mental might!

      Sonnet: This pleasant tale is like a little copse

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      Written at the end of “The Floure and the Lefe’

      This pleasant tale is like a little copse:

       The honied lines do freshly interlace

       To keep the reader in so sweet a place,

       So that he here and there full-hearted stops;

       And oftentimes he feels the dewy drops

       Come cool and suddenly against his face,

       And by the wandering melody may trace

       Which way the tender-legged linnet hops.

       Oh! what a power hath white simplicity!

       What mighty power has this gentle story! I that for ever feel athirst for glory

       Could at this moment be content to lie

       Meekly upon the grass, as those whose sobbings