Poetry, John Keats [grave mercy .txt] 📗

mice⁠—
Two or three sprats
At a very great price⁠—
Two or three sandies
And two or three tabbies⁠—
Two or three dandies
And two Mrs. ⸺⁠mum!
Two or three Smiles
And two or three frowns⁠—
Two or three Miles
To two or three towns⁠—
Two or three pegs
For two or three bonnets⁠—
Two or three dove eggs
To hatch into sonnets⁠— Acrostic Georgiana Augusta Keats

Give me your patience, sister, while I frame
Exact in capitals your golden name;
Or sue the fair Apollo and he will
Rouse from his heavy slumber and instill
Great love in me for thee and Poesy.
Imagine not that greatest mastery
And kingdom over all the Realms of verse,
Nears more to heaven in aught, than when we nurse
And surety give to love and Brotherhood.

Anthropophagi in Othello’s mood;
Ulysses storm’d and his enchanted belt
Glow with the Muse, but they are never felt
Unbosom’d so and so eternal made,
Such tender incense in their laurel shade
To all the regent sisters of the Nine
As this poor offering to you, sister mine.

Kind sister! ay, this third name says you are;
Enchanted has it been the Lord knows where;
And may it taste to you like good old wine,
Take you to real happiness and give
Sons, daughters and a home like honied hive.

A Song About Myself

There was a naughty Boy,
A naughty boy was he,
He would not stop at home,
He could not quiet be⁠—
He took
In his Knapsack
A Book
Full of vowels;
And a shirt
With some towels⁠—
A slight cap
For night cap⁠—
A hair brush,
Comb ditto,
New Stockings,
For old ones
Would split O!
This Knapsack,
Tight at ’s back,
He rivetted close
And follow’d his Nose
To the North,
To the North,
And follow’d his nose
To the North.

There was a naughty boy
And a naughty boy was he,
For nothing would he do
But scribble poetry⁠—
He took
An inkstand
In his hand,
And a Pen
Big as ten
In the other,
And away
In a Pother
He ran
To the mountains,
And fountains
And ghostes,
And Postes,
And witches,
And ditches,
And wrote
In his coat,
When the weather
Was cool,
Fear of gout,
And without
When the weather
Was warm⁠—
Och the charm
When we choose
To follow one’s nose
To the north,
To the north,
To follow one’s nose
To the north.

There was a naughty boy
And a naughty boy was he,
He kept little fishes
In washing tubs three
In spite
Of the might
Of the Maid,
Nor afraid
Of his Granny⁠—good⁠—
He often would,
Hurly burly,
Get up early,
And go
By hook or crook
To the brook,
And bring home
Miller’s thumb,
Tittlebat
Not over fat,
Minnows small
As the stall
Of a glove,
Not above
The size
Of a nice
Little Baby’s
Little fingers⁠—
O, he made,
’Twas his trade,
Of Fish a pretty Kettle
A Kettle⁠—
A Kettle
Of Fish, a pretty Kettle,
A Kettle!

There was a naughty Boy,
And a naughty Boy was he,
He ran away to Scotland
The people for to see⁠—
Then he found
That the ground
Was as hard,
That a yard
Was as long,
That a song
Was as merry,
That a cherry
Was as red⁠—
That lead
Was as weighty,
That fourscore
Was as eighty,
That a door
Was as wooden
As in England⁠—
So he stood in his shoes
And he wonder’d,
He wonder’d,
He stood in his shoes
And he wonder’d.

On Visiting the Tomb of Burns

The Town, the churchyard, and the setting sun,
The Clouds, the trees, the rounded hills all seem,
Though beautiful, cold⁠—strange⁠—as in a dream,
I dreamed long ago, now new begun.
The short lived, paly Summer is but won
From Winter’s ague, for one hour’s gleam;
Though sapphire-warm, their Stars do never beam:
All is cold Beauty; pain is never done:
For who has mind to relish, Minos-wise,
The Real of Beauty, free from that dead hue
Sickly imagination and sick pride
Cast wan upon it! Burns! with honour due
I oft have honour’d thee. Great shadow, hide
Thy face; I sin against thy native skies.

Meg Merrilies

Old Meg she was a Gipsy,
And liv’d upon the Moors:
Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
And her house was out of doors.

Her apples were swart blackberries,
Her currants pods o’ broom;
Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,
Her book a churchyard tomb.

Her Brothers were the craggy hills,
Her Sisters larchen trees⁠—
Alone with her great family
She liv’d as she did please.

No breakfast had she many a morn,
No dinner many a noon,
And ’stead of supper she would stare
Full hard against the Moon.

But every morn of woodbine fresh
She made her garlanding,
And every night the dark glen Yew
She wove, and she would sing.

And with her fingers old and brown
She plaited Mats o’ Rushes,
And gave them to the Cottagers
She met among the Bushes,

Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen
And tall as Amazon:
An old red blanket coat she wore;
A chip hat had she on.
God rest her aged bones somewhere⁠—
She died full long agone!

To Ailsa Rock

Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid!
Give answer from thy voice, the sea-fowls’ screams!
When were thy shoulders mantled in huge streams?
When, from the sun, was thy broad forehead hid?
How long is ’t since the mighty power bid
Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreams?
Sleep in the lap of thunder or sunbeams,
Or when gray clouds are thy cold coverlid.
Thou answer’st not; for thou art dead asleep;
Thy life is but two dead eternities⁠—
The last in air, the former in the deep;
First with the whales, last with the eagle-skies⁠—
Drown’d wast thou till an earthquake made thee steep,
Another cannot wake thy giant size.

Written in the Cottage Where Burns Was Born

This mortal body of a thousand days
Now fills, O Burns, a space in thine own room,
Where thou didst dream alone on budded bays,
Happy and thoughtless of thy day of doom!
My pulse is warm with thine old Barley-bree,
My head is light with pledging a great soul,
My