John Keats

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.

On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence.

On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence.

And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon.

And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon.

He play'd an ancient ditty long since mute,
In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans merci."

He play'd an ancient ditty long since mute,
In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans merci."

Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I read more

Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown.