To Solitude

 by John Keats

To Solitude 

O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell, 

Let it not be among the jumbled heap 

Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep, -- 

Nature's observatory -- whence the dell, 

Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell, 

May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep 

'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the deer's swift leap 

Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell. 

But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee, 

Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind, 

Whose words are images of thoughts refin'd, 

Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be 

Almost the highest bliss of human-kind, 

When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee. 

On The Sea 

It keeps eternal whisperings around

Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell

Gluts twice ten thousand Caverns, till the spell

Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound.

Often 'tis in such gentle temper found,

That scarcely will the very smallest shell

Be moved for days from where it sometime fell.

When last the winds of Heaven were unbound.

Oh, ye! who have your eyeballs vexed and tired,

Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea;

Oh ye! whose ears are dinned with uproar rude,

Or fed too much with cloying melody---

Sit ye near some old Cavern's Mouth and brood,

Until ye start, as if the sea nymphs quired! 

Ode To Autumn 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;

To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cider-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,---

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.