To Reynolds, May, 1818
“It is impossible to know how far knowledge will console us for the death of a friend and the ’ill that flesh is heir to.’ With respect to the affections and poetry, you must know by a sympathy my thoughts that way, and I dare say these few lines will be but a ratification. I wrote them on May-day, and intend to finish the ode all in good time.”May I sing to thee
As thou wast hymned on the shores of Baiæ?
Or may I woo thee
In earlier Sicilian? or thy smiles
Seek as they once were sought, in Grecian isles,
By bards who died content on pleasant sward,
Leaving great verse unto a little clan?
O, give me their old vigour, and unheard
Save of the quiet primrose, and the span
Of heaven and few ears,
Rounded by thee, my song should die away
Content as theirs,
Rich in the simple worship of a day.
Acrostic
Georgiana Augusta Keats
E xact in capitals your golden name;
O r sue the fair Apollo and he will
R ouse from his heavy slumber and instil
G reat love in me for thee and Poesy.
I magine not that greatest mastery
A nd kingdom over all the realms of verse,
N ears more to heaven in aught, than when we nurse
A nd surety give to love and brotherhood.
A nthropophagi in Othello’s mood;
U lysses stormed, and his enchanted belt
G low with the Muse, but they are never felt
U nbosomed so and so eternal made,
S uch tender incense in their laurel shade
T o all the regent sisters of the time
A s this poor offering to you, sister mine.
K ind sister! aye, this third name says you are;
E nchanted has it been the Lord knows when;
A nd may it taste to you like good old wine,
T ake you to real happiness and give
S ons, daughters, and a home like honeyed hive.
On Visiting The Tomb of Burns
The clouds, the trees, the rounded hills all seem,
Though beautiful, cold—strange—as in a dream,
I dreamed long ago, now new begun.
The short-lived paly Summer is but won
From Winter’s ague, for one hour’s gleam;
Though sapphire-warm, their stars do never beam!
All is cold Beauty; pain is never done:
For who has mind to relish, Minos-wise,
The Real of Beauty, free from that dead hue
Sickly imagination and sick pride
Cast wan upon it! Burns! with honour due
I oft have honour’d thee. Great shadow! hide
Thy face; I sin against thy native skies.
Meg Merrilies
And lived upon the moors:
Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
And her house was out of doors.
Her currants, pods o’ broom;
Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,
Her book a church-yard tomb.
Her sisters larchen trees;
Alone with her great family
She lived as she did please.
No breakfast had she many a morn,
No dinner many a noon,
And, ’stead of supper, she would stare
Full hard against the moon.
She made her garlanding,
And, every night, the dark glen yew
She wove, and she would sing.
And with her fingers, old and brown,
She plaited mats of rushes,
And gave them to the cottagers
She met among the bushes.
And tall as Amazon;
An old red blanket cloak she wore,
A ship- hat had she on:
God rest her aged bones somewhere!
She died full long agone!
Sonnet on Ailsa Rock
Give answer by thy voice—the sea-fowl’s screams!
When were
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