Maxioms by John Keats
There is a budding morrow in midnight.
There is a budding morrow in midnight.
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence.
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence.
But were there ever any
Writhed not at passed joy?
But were there ever any
Writhed not at passed joy?
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.
O, sorrow!
Why dost borrow
Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?
O, sorrow!
Why dost borrow
Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?
