Category Archives: Keats John

Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats

Posted on February 1, 2014 by Russell Boyle

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 … Continue reading →

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To Homer by John Keats

Posted on September 29, 2013 by Russell Boyle

Standing aloof in giant ignorance, Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades,As one who sits ashore and longs perchance To visit dolphin-coral in deep seas.So thou wast blind;—but then the veil was rent, For Jove uncurtain’d Heaven to let … Continue reading →

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To Autumn by John Keats

Posted on May 5, 2013 by Russell Boyle

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-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, And fill all fruit … Continue reading →

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Robin Hood by John Keats

Posted on January 31, 2013 by Russell Boyle

To a friend No! those days are gone away And their hours are old and gray, And their minutes buried all Under the down-trodden pall Of the leaves of many years: Many times have winter’s shears, Frozen North, and chilling … Continue reading →

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La Belle Dame sans Merci by John Keats

Posted on November 11, 2012 by Russell Boyle

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing. O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel’s granary is full, And the harvest’s … Continue reading →

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To Sleep by John Keats

Posted on August 26, 2012 by Russell Boyle

O soft embalmer of the still midnight, Shutting, with careful fingers and benign, Our gloom-pleas’d eyes, embower’d from the light, Enshaded in forgetfulness divine: O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close In midst of this thine hymn my … Continue reading →

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Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats

Posted on August 26, 2012 by Russell Boyle

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: ‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, … Continue reading →

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