Keats: Poems (Everyman's Library Pocket Poets)

Keats: Poems (Everyman's Library Pocket Poets)

John Keats

Language: English

Pages: 108

ISBN: 1540585263

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


These Everyman's Library Pocket Poets hardcover editions are popular for their compact size and reasonable price which do not compromise content. Poems: Keats contains a full selection of Keats's work, including his lyric poems, narrative poems, letters, and an index of first lines.

The Mayor of Casterbridge (Bantam Classic reissue)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

my truth, ‘I have not ask’d it, ever thinking thee ‘Not mortal, but of heavenly progeny, ‘As still I do. Hast any mortal name, ‘Fit appellation for this dazzling frame? ‘Or friends or kinsfolk on the citied earth, ‘To share our marriage feast and nuptial mirth?’ ‘I have no friends,’ said Lamia, ’no, not one; ‘My presence in wide Corinth hardly known: ‘My parents’ bones are in their dusty urns ‘Sepulchred, where no kindled incense burns, ‘Seeing all their luckless race are dead, save

drink her tears, And at the least ‘twill startle off her cares.’ VI So said he one fair morning, and all day His heart beat awfully against his side; And to his heart he inwardly did pray For power to speak; but still the ruddy tide Stifled his voice, and puls’d resolve away — Fever’d his high conceit of such a bride, Yet brought him to the meekness of a child: Alas! when passion is both meek and wild! VII So once more he had wak’d and anguished A dreary night of love and misery, If

an easy wheel, That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and peel. XVI Why were they proud? Because their marble founts Gush’d with more pride than do a wretch’s tears? Why were they proud? Because fair orange-mounts Were of more soft ascent than lazar stairs? — Why were they proud? Because red-lin’d accounts Were richer than the songs of Grecian years? — Why were they proud? again we ask aloud, Why in the name of Glory were they proud? XVII Yet were these Florentines as self-retired In

now had climb’d With damp and slippery footing from a depth More horrid still. Above a sombre cliff Their heads appear’d, and up their stature grew Till on the level height their steps found ease: Then Thea spread abroad her trembling arms Upon the precincts of this nest of pain, And sidelong fix’d her eye on Saturn’s face: There saw she direst strife; the supreme God At war with all the frailty of grief, Of rage, of fear, anxiety, revenge, Remorse, spleen, hope, but most of all

through an hour-glass runs, — A woodland rivulet, — a Poet’s death. CHAUCER’S ‘THE FLOURE and THE LEEFE’ This pleasant tale is like a little copse: The honied lines do freshly interlace To keep the reader in so sweet a place, So that he here and there full-hearted stops; And oftentimes he feels the dewy drops Come cool and suddenly against his face, And by the wandering melody may trace Which way the tender-legged linnet hops. Oh! what a power hath white simplicity! What mighty power

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