John Keats

(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821 / London, England)

John Keats Poems

161. Isabella Or The Pot Of Basil 1/3/2003
162. Ode On Indolence 12/31/2002
163. A Prophecy: To George Keats In America 3/22/2010
164. Hyperion 12/31/2002
165. To Sleep 12/31/2002
166. On Death 3/29/2010
167. Where's The Poet? 1/3/2003
168. Epistle To My Brother George 1/13/2003
169. Think Of It Not, Sweet One 12/31/2002
170. On Fame 1/3/2003
171. O Solitude! If I Must With Thee Dwell 1/13/2003
172. Endymion: Book Ii 1/13/2003
173. A Galloway Song 3/22/2010
174. The Human Seasons 12/31/2002
175. Ode 1/3/2003
176. Ode To Psyche 12/31/2002
177. Hymn To Apollo 12/31/2002
178. You Say You Love 3/23/2010
179. O Blush Not So! 12/31/2002
180. The Eve Of St. Agnes 12/31/2002
181. This Living Hand 1/3/2003
182. Endymion: A Poetic Romance (Excerpt) 1/1/2004
183. To Solitude 12/31/2002
184. Endymion: Book I 1/13/2003
185. On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer 12/31/2002
186. An Extempore 3/22/2010
187. Fragment Of An Ode To Maia 1/4/2003
188. Fill For Me A Brimming Bowl 1/3/2003
189. Ode On Melancholy 12/31/2002
190. Addressed To Haydon 1/13/2003
191. To Fanny 1/13/2003
192. La Belle Dame Sans Merci (Original Version ) 3/29/2010
193. Asleep! O Sleep A Little While, White Pearl! 3/22/2010
194. Endymion (Excerpts) 12/31/2002
195. Answer To A Sonnet By J.H.Reynolds 1/13/2003
196. Where Be Ye Going, You Devon Maid? 12/31/2002
197. Acrostic : Georgiana Augusta Keats 3/22/2010
198. Hither, Hither, Love 12/31/2002
199. To Hope 12/31/2002
200. Bards Of Passion And Of Mirth, 1/4/2003

Comments about John Keats

  • Subrata Ray (2/25/2010 9:43:00 AM)

    Keats is an artist.He is original in his own way.He leaves no theory of poetry as Wordsworth does.His conception of beauty as revealed in Ode to Grecian Urn is a discovery.
    His few poems bear with them the stamp of his genius.Every where, we find, the qualities like, Medieval ism, Hellenism, word-painting, sensuousness, and aestheticism, etc.The ode to Nightingale, seems to be the representative poem of the poet.
    Had Keats not an earlier death, he could have contributed to the world the fruits of his excellency.
    Subrata Ray.Mousumipara.Uluberia.West.Bengal.India.

    10 person liked.
    7 person did not like.
  • Abel Enokela (2/5/2010 6:22:00 AM)

    John Keats is great poet; though dead he is still a great influence in poetry in all ages

  • Lalit Patel (7/31/2009 11:12:00 PM)

    Dear Sir,

    I need similar poems of the Human Seasons. Pls mail me as earlier becos its very urgent for me

    Thanks

  • Silly Tony (5/6/2009 11:32:00 PM)

    John Keats, a beautiful name, a handsome man, during his short life created a lot of memorable poems.

  • p.a. noushad p.a. noushad (8/1/2008 3:48:00 AM)

    your poems I read again and again, a nice experience.

  • p.a. noushad p.a. noushad (8/1/2008 3:40:00 AM)

    your poems are heart touching and romantic.

  • Rohan R (7/29/2008 10:01:00 AM)

    Gifted poet that touches the painful hearts

  • p.a. noushad p.a. noushad (7/14/2008 3:58:00 AM)

    Dear keats I love your poems again and again.

  • p.a. noushad p.a. noushad (6/14/2008 1:44:00 AM)

    romantic touch with painful realities.

  • Javier Alonso (6/7/2008 10:12:00 PM)

    great use of imagery.
    you definitely got me to imagine everything going on

    good job!

Best Poem of John Keats

A Thing Of Beauty (Endymion)

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its lovliness 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-darkn'd ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, ...

Read the full of A Thing Of Beauty (Endymion)

This Living Hand

This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calmed - see here it is -
I hold it towards you.

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