Great poems
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Count Eberhard, The Groaner Of Wurtembert. A War Song
© Johann Christoph Friedrich Von Schiller
Now hearken, ye who take delight
In boasting of your worth!
To many a man, to many a knight,
Beloved in peace and brave in fight,
The Swabian land gives birth.
Carthage
© Johann Christoph Friedrich Von Schiller
Oh thou degenerate child of the great and glorious mother,
Who with the Romans' strong might couplest the Tyrians' deceit!
But those ever governed with vigor the earth they had conquered,--
These instructed the world that they with cunning had won.
Say! what renown does history grant thee? Thou, Roman-like, gained'st
That with the steel, which with gold, Tyrian-like, then thou didst rule!
Breadth And Depth
© Johann Christoph Friedrich Von Schiller
Full many a shining wit one sees,
With tongue on all things well conversing;
The what can charm, the what can please,
In every nice detail rehearsing.
Their raptures so transport the college,
It seems one honeymoon of knowledge.
Astronomical Writings
© Johann Christoph Friedrich Von Schiller
Oh, how infinite, how unspeakably great, are the heavens!
Yet by frivolity's hand downwards the heavens are pulled!
The sun has burst the sky
© Jenny Joseph
The sun has burst the sky
Because I love you
And the river its banks.
Fragment of an Ode to Maia
© John Keats
MOTHER of Hermes! and still youthful Maia!
May I sing to thee
As thou wast hymned on the shores of Baiae?
Or may I woo thee
Song of the Indian Maid, from 'Endymion'
© John Keats
O SORROW!
Why dost borrow
The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips?--
To give maiden blushes
To the white rose bushes?
Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips?
Ode to Fanny
© John Keats
Physician Nature! Let my spirit blood!
O ease my heart of verse and let me rest;
Throw me upon thy Tripod, till the flood
Of stifling numbers ebbs from my full breast.
How Many Bards Gild The Lapses Of Time!
© John Keats
How many bards gild the lapses of time!
A few of them have ever been the food
Of my delighted fancy,I could brood
Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime:
Answer To A Sonnet By J.H.Reynolds
© John Keats
"Dark eyes are dearer far
Than those that mock the hyacinthine bell."Blue! 'Tis the life of heaven,the domain
Of Cynthia,the wide palace of the sun,
The tent of Hesperus, and all his train,
Isabella or The Pot of Basil
© John Keats
I.
Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel!
Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love's eye!
They could not in the self-same mansion dwell
Endymion: Book II
© John Keats
He heard but the last words, nor could contend
One moment in reflection: for he fled
Into the fearful deep, to hide his head
From the clear moon, the trees, and coming madness.
Addressed To Haydon
© John Keats
High-mindedness, a jealousy for good,
A loving-kindness for the great man's fame,
Dwells here and there with people of no name,
In noisome alley, and in pathless wood:
Endymion: Book III
© John Keats
"Young man of Latmos! thus particular
Am I, that thou may'st plainly see how far
This fierce temptation went: and thou may'st not
Exclaim, How then, was Scylla quite forgot?
Meg Merrilies
© John Keats
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.
Endymion: Book IV
© John Keats
Endymion to heaven's airy dome
Was offering up a hecatomb of vows,
When these words reach'd him. Whereupon he bows
His head through thorny-green entanglement
Of underwood, and to the sound is bent,
Anxious as hind towards her hidden fawn.
Epistle To My Brother George
© John Keats
Full many a dreary hour have I past,
My brain bewildered, and my mind o'ercast
With heaviness; in seasons when I've thought
No spherey strains by me could e'er be caught
Endymion: Book I
© John Keats
This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a star
Through autumn mists, and took Peona's hand:
They stept into the boat, and launch'd from land.
Hyperion
© John Keats
BOOK I Deep in the shady sadness of a vale
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star,
Sat gray-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone,
To My Brothers
© John Keats
Small, busy flames play through the fresh-laid coals,
And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep
Like whispers of the household gods that keep
A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls.
