John Keats

St Agnes' Eve--Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold.

St Agnes' Eve--Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold.

Love is my religion - I could die for it.

Love is my religion - I could die for it.

Each Bond-street buck conceits, unhappy elf;
He shows his clothes! alas! he shows himself.
O that they read more

Each Bond-street buck conceits, unhappy elf;
He shows his clothes! alas! he shows himself.
O that they knew, these overdrest self-lovers,
What hides the body oft the mind discovers.

Through the dancing poppies stole
A breeze most softly lulling to my soul.

Through the dancing poppies stole
A breeze most softly lulling to my soul.

O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell,
Let it not be among the jumbled heap
Of read more

O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell,
Let it not be among the jumbled heap
Of murky buildings: climb with me the steep,--
Nature's observatory--whence the dell,
In flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell,
May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep
'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the deer's swift leap
Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell.