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JOHN KEATS (1)
English poet
(1795 - 1821)
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In a drear-nighted December,
  Too happy, happy tree,
    Thy branches ne'er remember
      Their green felicity.
      - Stanzas [Fir]

But were there ever any
  Writhed not at passed joy?
      - Stanzas--In Drear Nighted December [Joy]

St Agnes' Eve--Ah, bitter chill it was!
  The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold.
      - The Eve of St. Agnes [Owls]

St. Agnes's Eve--Ah, bitter chill is was!
  The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold.
      - The Eve of St. Agnes [Books (First Lines)]

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,
  Flushing his brow.
      - The Eve of St. Agnes (st. 16) [Thought]

Ere music's golden tongue
  Flattered to tears this aged man and poor.
      - The Eve of St. Agnes (st. 3) [Music]

And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon.
      - The Eve of St. Agnes (st. 30) [Eating]

He play'd an ancient ditty long since mute,
  In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans merci."
      - The Eve of St. Agnes (st. 33),
        "La Belle Dame, sans Merci" is a poem written by Alain Chartier
        [Songs]

The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.
      - The Eve of St. Agnes (st. 4) [Music]

I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,
  A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw
    Its sweets upon the summer.
      - To a Friend who Sent some Roses
        [Musk Roses]

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
  Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
    Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
      In the next valley-glades:
        Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
          Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?
      - To a Nightingale [Nightingales]

Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird!
  No hungry generations tread thee down;
    The voice I hear this passing night was heard
      In ancient days by emperor and clown.
      - To a Nightingale [Nightingales]

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,
          And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core.
      - To Autumn [Autumn : Books (First Lines)]

E'en like the passage of an angel's tear
  That falls through the clear ether silently.
      - To One Who Has Been Long in City Pent
        [Tears]


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