Maxioms by John Keats
How beautiful, if sorrow had not made
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
How beautiful, if sorrow had not made
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
Where the nightingale doth sing
Not a senseless, tranced thing,
But divine melodious truth.
Where the nightingale doth sing
Not a senseless, tranced thing,
But divine melodious truth.
But were there ever any
Writhed not at passed joy?
But were there ever any
Writhed not at passed joy?
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence.
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence.
Dry your eyes--O dry your eyes,
For I was taught in Paradise
To ease my breast of read more
Dry your eyes--O dry your eyes,
For I was taught in Paradise
To ease my breast of melodies.
