John Keats

There is a budding morrow in midnight.

There is a budding morrow in midnight.

Souls of poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
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Souls of poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

'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?

In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne'er remember
Apollo's summer read more

In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne'er remember
Apollo's summer look;
But with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their crystal fretting,
Never, never petting
About the frozen time.

There was an awful rainbow once in heaven;
We know her woof, her texture; she is given
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There was an awful rainbow once in heaven;
We know her woof, her texture; she is given
In the dull catalogue of common things.
Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings.