romantics

On Fame (How fever’d is the man) «You cannot eat your cake and have it too.» – Proverb. How fever’d is the man, who cannot look Upon his mortal days with temperate blood, Who vexes all the leaves of his life’s book, And robs his fair name of its maidenhood; It is as if the rose should pluck herself, On the ripe plum finger its misty bloom, As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf, Should darken her pure grot with muddy gloom: But the rose leaves herself upon the briar, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed, And the ripe plum still wears its dim attire, The undisturbed lake has crystal space; Why then should man, teasing the world for grace, Spoil his salvation for a fierce miscreed?   man, who cannot look Upon his mortal days with temperate blood, Who vexes all the leaves of his life’s book, And robs his fair name of its maidenhood; It is as if the rose should pluck herself, On the ripe plum finger its misty bloom, As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf, Should darken her pure grot wit...

Acrostic: Georgiana Augusta Keats G ive me your patience, sister, while I frame E xact in capitals your golden name; O r sue the fair Apollo and he will R ouse from his heavy slumber and instill 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 storm’d and his enchanted belt G low with the Muse, but they are never felt U nbosom’d so and so eternal made, S uch tender incense in their laurel shade T o all the regent sisters of the Nine 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 where; 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 honied hive. 1818

  Ode on a Grecian Urn Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,      Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express      A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape      Of deities or mortals, or of both,         In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?      What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?         What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?   Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard      Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,      Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave      Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;         Bold lover, nev...

  On First Looking into  Chapman’s Homer Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow’d Homer ruled as his demesne; Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He star’d at the Pacific—and all his men Look’d at each other with a wild surmise— Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

Autumn Birds The wild duck startles like a sudden thought, And heron slow as if it might be caught. The flopping crows on weary wings go by And grey beard jackdaws noising as they fly. The crowds of starnels whizz and hurry by, And darken like a clod the evening sky. The larks like thunder rise and suthy round, Then drop and nestle in the stubble ground. The wild swan hurries hight and noises loud With white neck peering to the evening cloud. The weary rooks to distant woods are gone. With lengths of tail the magpie winnows on To neighbouring tree, and leaves the distant crow While small birds nestle in the edge below.

Dear Sir I am in a Madhouse and quite forget your Name or who you are – you must excuse me for I have nothing to communicate or tell of & why I am shut up I don’t know – I have nothing to say so I conclude Yours respectfully, John Clare

Summer Evening The frog half fearful jumps across the path, And little mouse that leaves its hole at eve Nimbles with timid dread beneath the swath; My rustling steps awhile their joys deceive, Till past,—and then the cricket sings more strong, And grasshoppers in merry moods still wear The short night weary with their fretting song. Up from behind the molehill jumps the hare, Cheat of his chosen bed, and from the bank The yellowhammer flutters in short fears From off its nest hid in the grasses rank, And drops again when no more noise it hears. Thus nature's human link and endless thrall, Proud man, still seems the enemy of all.