The Complete Works of John Keats: Poems, Plays & Personal Letters. John Keats. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: John Keats
Издательство: Bookwire
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isbn: 9788027230198
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love begins to weave

       The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight ;

       But, as I’ve read love’s missal through today,

       He’ll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.

      O! Were I one of the Olympian twelve

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      O! Were I one of the Olympian twelve,

       Their godships should pass this into a law, -

       That when a man doth set himself in toil

       After some beauty veiled far away,

       Each step he took should make his lady’s hand

       More soft, more white, and her fair cheek more fair;

       And for each briar-berry he might eat,

       A kiss should bud upon the tree of love,

       And pulp and ripen richer every hour,

       To melt away upon the traveller’s lips.

      Two or Three

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      From a Letter to His Sister

      Two or three posies

       With two or three simples -

       Two or three noses

       With two or three pimples -

       Two or three wise men

       And two or three ninny’s -

       Two or three purses

       And two or three guineas -

       Two or three raps

       At two or three doors - Two or three naps

       Of two or three hours -

       Two or three cats

       And two or three mice

       Two or three sprats

       At a very great price -

       Two or three sandies

       And two or three tabbies -

       Two or three dandies

       And two Mrs — mum! Two or three smiles

       And two or three frowns -

       Two or three miles

       To two or three towns -

       Two or three pegs

       For two or three bonnets -

       Two or three dove eggs

       To hatch into sonnets.

      To the Ladies who Saw Me Crown’d

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      What is there in the universal Earth

       More lovely than a Wreath from the bay tree?

       Haply a Halo round the Moon - a glee

       Circling from three sweet pair of lips in mirth;

       And haply you will say the dewy birth

       Of morning roses - riplings tenderly

       Spread by the Halcyon’s breast upon the sea -

       But these comparisons are nothing worth -

       Then is there nothing in the world so fair?

       The silvery tears of April? - Youth of May? Or June that breaths out life for butterflies?

       No - none of these can from my favourite bear

       Away the Palm - yet shall it ever pay

       Due reverence to your most sovereign eyes.

      A Draught of Sunshine

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      Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port,

       Away with old Hock and Madeira,

       Too earthly ye are for my sport;

       There’s a beverage brighter and clearer.

       Instead of a pitiful rummer,

       My wine overbrims a whole summer;

       My bowl is the sky,

       And I drink at my eye,

       Till I feel in the brain

       A Delphian pain - Then follow, my Caius! then follow:

       On the green of the hill

       We will drink our fill

       Of golden sunshine,

       Till our brains intertwine

       With the glory and grace of Apollo!

       God of the meridian,

       And of the east and west,

       To thee my soul is flown,

       And my body is earthward press’d. - It is an awful mission,

       A terrible division;

       And leaves a gulf austere

       To be fill’d with worldly fear.

       Aye, when the soul is fled

       To high above our head,

       Affrighted do we gaze

       After its airy maze,

       As doth a mother wild,

       When her young infant child Is in an eagle’s claws -

       And is not this the cause

       Of madness? - God of Song,

       Thou bearest me along

       Through sights I scarce can bear:

       O let me, let me share

       With the hot lyre and thee.

      The staid Philosophy.

       Temper my lonely hours,

       And let me see thy bowers

       More unalarm’d!

      To My Brother George

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      Full many a dreary hour have I past,

       My brain bewilder’d, and my mind o’ercast

       With heaviness; in seasons when I’ve thought

       No spherey strains by me could e’er be caught

       From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze

       On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays;

       Or, on the wavy grass outstretch’d supinely,

       Pry ‘mong the stars, to strive to think divinely:

       That I should never hear Apollo’s song,

       Though feathery clouds were floating all along

       The purple west, and, two bright streaks between,

       The golden lyre itself were dimly seen:

       That the still murmur of the honey bee

       Would never teach a rural song to me:

       That the bright glance from beauty’s eyelids slanting

       Would never make a lay of mine enchanting,