Poetry Screen Saver - Quotes

John Keats ( 1796-1821 )

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness.
It is a flaw
In happiness, to see beyond our bourn, -
It forces us in summer skies to mourn,
It spoils the singing of the Nightingale.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passning night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown.
Away! Away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy.
Old Meg she was a gypsy;
And liv'd upon the moors:
Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
And her house was out of doors.