John Keats

Oh for a life of sensations rather than thoughts.

Oh for a life of sensations rather than thoughts.

The poppies hung
Dew-dabbed on their stalks.

The poppies hung
Dew-dabbed on their stalks.

But were there ever any
Writhed not at passed joy?

But were there ever any
Writhed not at passed joy?

'Tis the witching hour of night,
Orbed is the moon and bright,
And the stars they glisten, read more

'Tis the witching hour of night,
Orbed is the moon and bright,
And the stars they glisten, glisten,
Seeming with bright eyes to listen-
For what listen they?

A thing of beauty is a joy forever;
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; read more

A thing of beauty is a joy forever;
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.