| Where's the Poet ? Where's the Poet? Show him, show him, Muses nine, that I may know him ! 'Tis the man who with a man Is an equal, be he king, Or poorest of the beggar-clan, Or any other woundrous thing A man may be 'twixt ape and Plato; 'Tis the man who with a bird, Wren or Eagle, finds his way to All his instincts; he hath heard The Lion's roaring, and can tell What his horny throat expresseth, And to him the Tiger's yell Comes articulate and presseth On his ear like mother-tongue. John Keats |
| Addressed To Haydon Great spirits of the earth now are sojourning; He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake, Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake, Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing: He of the rose, the violet, the spring, The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake: And lo ! - whose stedfastness would never take A meaner sound than Raphael's whispering. And other spirits there are standing apart Upon the forehead of the age to come; These, these will give the world another heart, And other pulses, here ye not the hum Of mighty workings?- Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb. John Keats |
| This Living Hand This living hand, now warm and capable Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold And in the icy silence of the tomb, So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights That thou would [st] wish thy own heart dry of blood So in my red veins life might stream again, And thou be conscious-calm'd - see here it is - I hold it towards you. John Keats |
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