The Romantic Way

If you've received roses from someone recently, copy and send this romantic poem by John Keats as a “thank you”.

Nature's offerings far excel the beauty of man's cultivated. Nature's delicate, simple and wild products are part of God's untampered creation. Keats exclaims that highly valued is a rose given by a friend. A gift, with its peace, affection and friendship, out-measures any other.

I love that Keats, while confused by many of life's mysteries, never fails to notice the affection of the heart. He's moved by kindness, a gesture of friendship. His gratitude overflows in these romantic poems:

John Keats' romantic poetry not only is incredibly pleasing to the ear, but I marvel how he helps us see what he's seeing. What he's writing we far more than imagine. We're there with John.

To A Friend Who Sent Me Some Roses

To Some Ladies

On receiving a curious Shell, and a Copy of Verses, from the same Ladies

A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever

La Belle Dame Sans Merci

Bright Star

Odeon A Grecian Urn

To A Friend Who Sent Me Some Roses

John Keats
As late I rambled in the happy fields,
What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dew
From his lush clover covert; -when anew
Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields;
I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,
A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw
Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew
As is the wand that Queen Titania wields.
And, as I feasted on its fragrancy,
I thought the garden-rose it far excelled;
But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me,
My sense with their deliciousness was spelled:
Soft voices had they, that with tender plea
Whispered of peace, and truth, and friendliness
   unquelled.

"Every poem can be considered in two ways--as what the poet has to say, and as a thing which he makes."
—C. S. Lewis —A preface to "Paradise Lost"

To Some Ladies

John Keats
What though while the wonders of nature exploring,
I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend;
Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring,
   Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiast's friend:
Yet over the steep, whence the mountain stream rushes,
   With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove;
Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate gushes,
   Its spray that the wild flower kindly bedews.
Why linger you so, the wild labyrinth strolling?
   Why breathless, unable your bliss to declare?
Ah! you list to the nightingale's tender condoling,
   Responsive to sylphs, in the moon beamy air.
'Tis morn, and the flowers with dew are yet drooping,
   I see you are treading the verge of the sea:
And now! ah, I see it—you just now are stooping
   To pick up the keep-sake intended for me.
If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending,
   Had brought me a gem from the fret-work of heaven;
And smiles, with his star-cheering voice sweetly blending,
   The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given;
It had not created a warmer emotion
   Than the present, fair nymphs, I was blest with from you,
Than the shell, from the bright golden sands of the ocean
   Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly threw.
For, indeed, 'tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure,
   (And blissful is he who such happiness finds,)
To possess but a span of the hour of leisure,
   In elegant, pure, and aerial minds.

On receiving a curious Shell, and a Copy of Verses, from the same Ladies

John Keats
Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem
   Pure as the ice-drop that froze on the mountain?
Bright as the humming-bird's green diadem,
   When it flutters in sun-beams that shine through a fountain?
Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine?
   That goblet right heavy, and massy, and gold?
And splendidly mark'd with the story divine
   Of Armida the fair, and Rinaldo the bold?
Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing?
   Hast thou a sword that thine enemy's smart is?
Hast thou a trumpet rich melodies blowing?
   And wear'st thou the shield of the fam'd Britomartis?
What is it that hangs from thy shoulder, so brave,
   Embroidered with many a spring peering flower?
Is it a scarf that thy fair lady gave?
   And hastest thou now to that fair lady's bower?
Ah! courteous Sir Knight, with large joy thou art crown'd;
   Full many the glories that brighten thy youth!
I will tell thee my blisses, which richly abound
   In magical powers to bless, and to sooth.
On this scroll thou seest written in characters fair
   A sun-beamy tale of a wreath, and a chain;
And, warrior, it nurtures the property rare
   Of charming my mind from the trammels of pain.
This canopy mark: 'tis the work of a fay;
   Beneath its rich shade did King Oberon languish,
When lovely Titania was far, far away,
   And cruelly left him to sorrow, and anguish.
There, oft would he bring from his soft sighing lute
   Wild strains to which, spell-bound, the nightingales listened;
The wondering spirits of heaven were mute,
   And tears 'mong the dewdrops of morning oft glistened.
In this little dome, all those melodies strange,
   Soft, plaintive, and melting, for ever will sigh;
Nor e'er will the notes from their tenderness change;
   Nor e'er will the music of Oberon die.
So, when I am in a voluptuous vein,
   I pillow my head on the sweets of the rose,
And list to the tale of the wreath, and the chain,
   Till its echoes depart; then I sink to repose.
Adieu, valiant Eric! with joy thou art crown'd;
   Full many the glories that brighten thy youth,
I too have my blisses, which richly abound
   In magical powers, to bless and to sooth.

A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever

John Keats
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darken'd ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits...

La Belle Dame Sans Merci

John Keats
O, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
    Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge is wither'd from the lake,
    And no birds sing.

O, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
    So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
    And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
    With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
    Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads
    Full beautiful --- a faery's child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
    And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
    And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look'd at me as she did love,
    And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,
    And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
    A faery's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
    And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
    'I love thee true.'

She took me to her elfin grot,
    And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes
    With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep,
    And there I dream'd --- ah! woe betide! ---
The latest dream I ever dreamt
    On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,
    Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried --- 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
    Hath thee in thrall!'

I saw their starved lips in the gloam
    With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
    On the cold hill side.

And this is why I sojourn here,
    Alone and palely loitering;
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
    And no birds sing.

Bright Star

John Keats
Bright Star, would I were stedfast as thou art --
   Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
   Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
   Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
   Of snow upon the mountains and the moors -
No -- yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
   Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
   Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever -- or else swoon to death.

Odeon A Grecian Urn

John Keats
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness!
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never, canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal - yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou have not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy, boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,' - that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

Yours along TheRomanticWay!


Rod & Holly