John Keats

The poetry of the earth is never dead.

The poetry of the earth is never dead.

He ne'er is crowned with immortality
Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.

He ne'er is crowned with immortality
Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.

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.

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; read more

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?