No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; Make not your rosary of yew-berries, Nor let the beetle nor the death-moth be Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; For shade to shade will come too drowsily, And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides ...

Continue Reading

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-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd 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-brimm'd their ...

Continue Reading

John Keats, an English romantic poet born on 31st October, 1795 in London. In his short lifetime he published 3 books of poetry.  He lost his parents at the very early stage of his life. Richard Abbey and John Rowland Sandell were the two London merchants who were appointed by the Keats’s maternal grandmother as his guardians. At the age of fifteen he was withdrew from the Clarke school by Abbey to apprentice with an apothecary surgeon. He also studied ...

Continue Reading