Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aërial hue Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view: Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. JOHN KEATS On First Looking into Chapman's Homer Oft of one wide expanse had I been told Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: On the Grasshopper and the Cricket The Poetry of earth is never dead: When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, On a lone winter evening, when the frost |