Poems by John Keats

heath of life presents no bloom; Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed, And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head.

When by my solitary hearth I sit, And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom; When no fair dreams before my "mind's eye" flit, And the bare

Bright as the humming-bird's green diadem, When it flutters in sun-beams that shine through a fountain?