A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
John Keats
BARDS of Passion and of Mirth,
Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art—
A Poetic Romance.
O Sovereign power of love! O grief! O balm!
There are who lord it o'er their fellow-men
Muse of my native land! loftiest Muse!
Full many a dreary hour have I past,
GIVE me women, wine, and snuff
Happy is England! I could be content
Deep in the shady sadness of a vale
In drear-nighted December,
Upon a time, before the faery broods
Love in a hut, with water and a crust,
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,
Why dost borrow
IN a drear-nighted December,
As late I rambled in the happy fields,
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Standing aloof in giant ignorance,
When by my solitary hearth I sit,
Many the wonders I this day have seen:
Small, busy flames play through the fresh-laid coals,
The church bells toll a melancholy round,