Image by jinterwas I had a dove and the sweet dove died
and I have thought it died of grieving
o, what could it grieve for? it’s feed were tied,
with a silken thread of my own hands weaving
sweet little red feet! why should you die –
why should you leave me, sweet bird, why? –
you lived alone in the forest-tree
why, pretty thing, would you not live with me?
I kiss’d you oft and gave you white peas;
why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?
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Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art— Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores, Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors— No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable, Pillowed upon my fair love’s ripening breast, To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever—or else swoon in death. 1819
John Keats – Ode On A Grecian Urn – Reader Unknown Ode On A Grecian Urn by John Keats (1795-1821) Thou still unravished 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-fringed 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 loath? 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 endeared, Pipe to the spirit dities of no tone. Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair! Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied, Forever piping songs forever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! Forever warm and still to be enjoyed, Forever panting, and forever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies … Video Rating: 5 / 5
Question by ebonys_finest: Is F. Scott Fitzgerald the 20th century John Keats?
I found a statement that says “Fitzgerald has been referred to as a 20th-century John Keats.” I was just wondering what you guys thought about this. I think they are both similar in the way of their imaginations and such but I don’t know that much about Keats. What do you think of this comparison?
Answer by MOM KNOWS EVERYTHING Fitzgerald wrote novels and short stories. Keats wrote poetry. I think the comparison is awkward, to say the least.
Question by Space Ranger: Who knows of a font, based on John Keats’ handwriting?
I have decided to get a tattoo from John Keats “A thing of beauty is a joy forever”.
I know where the tattoo is going to be and the colour, but I can’t find a font that is based on his handwriting. Does a font exist out there in the internet or a solid replacement?
Answer by Kathryn W Can’t say that I’ve ever heard of one, but feel free to prove me wrong.
EDIT: This site has a comprehensive list of fonts.
rnaudioproductions for www.ipodity.com www.allcast.co.uk Autumn by John Keats read by Frances Jeater 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 with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep, Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,– While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red …