Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that ofttimes hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
John KeatsBut let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the sky with silver glitterings!
John KeatsThe excellency of every art is its intensity, capable of making all disagreeable evaporate.
John Keats