letters/poetry/keats_poems_1820.json

[
  {
    "title": "The Eve Of St. Agnes",
    "body": "In _Lamia_ and _Hyperion_, as in _Endymion_, we find Keats inspired by\nclassic story, though the inspiration in each case came to him through\nElizabethan writers. Here, on the other hand, mediaeval legend is his\ninspiration; the 'faery broods' have driven 'nymph and satyr from the\nprosperous woods'. Akin to the Greeks as he was in spirit, in his\ninstinctive personification of the lovely manifestations of nature, his\nstyle and method were really more naturally suited to the portrayal of\nmediaeval scenes, where he found the richness and warmth of colour in\nwhich his soul delighted.\n\nThe story of _Isabella_ he took from Boccaccio, an Italian writer of the\nfourteenth century, whose _Decameron_, a collection of one hundred\nstories, has been a store-house of plots for English writers. By\nBoccaccio the tale is very shortly and simply told, being evidently\ninteresting to him mainly for its plot. Keats was attracted to it not so\nmuch by the action as by the passion involved, so that his enlargement\nof it means little elaboration of incident, but very much more dwelling\non the psychological aspect. That is to say, he does not care so much\nwhat happens, as what the personages of the poem think and feel.\n\nThus we see that the main incident of the story, the murder of Lorenzo,\nis passed over in a line--'Thus was Lorenzo slain and buried in,' the\nnext line, 'There, in that forest, did his great love cease,' bringing\nus back at once from the physical reality of the murder to the thought\nof his love, which is to Keats the central fact of the story.\n\nIn the delineation of Isabella, her first tender passion of love, her\nagony of apprehension giving way to dull despair, her sudden wakening to\na brief period of frenzied action, described in stanzas of incomparable\ndramatic force, and the 'peace' which followed when she\n\n     Forgot the stars, the moon, the sun,\n     And she forgot the blue above the trees,\n     And she forgot the dells where waters run,\n     And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze;\n     She had no knowledge when the day was done,\n     And the new morn she saw not--\n\nculminating in the piteous death 'too lone and incomplete'--in the\ndelineation of all this Keats shows supreme power and insight.\n\nIn the conception, too, of the tragic loneliness of Lorenzo's ghost we\nfeel that nothing could be changed, added, or taken away.\n\nNot quite equally happy are the descriptions of the cruel brothers, and\nof Lorenzo as the young lover. There is a tendency to exaggerate both\ntheir inhumanity and his gentleness, for purposes of contrast, which\nweakens where it would give strength.\n\n_The Eve of St. Agnes_, founded on a popular mediaeval legend, not being\na tragedy like _Isabella_, cannot be expected to rival it in depth and\nintensity; but in every other poetic quality it equals, where it does\nnot surpass, the former poem.\n\nTo be specially noted is the skilful use which Keats here makes of\ncontrast--between the cruel cold without and the warm love within; the\npalsied age of the Bedesman and Angela, and the eager youth of Porphyro\nand Madeline; the noise and revel and the hush of Madeline's bedroom,\nand, as Mr. Colvin has pointed out, in the moonlight which, chill and\nsepulchral when it strikes elsewhere, to Madeline is as a halo of glory,\nan angelic light.\n\nA mysterious charm is given to the poem by the way in which Keats endows\ninanimate things with a sort of half-conscious life. The knights and\nladies of stone arouse the bedesman's shuddering sympathy when he thinks\nof the cold they must be enduring; 'the carven angels' '_star'd_'\n'_eager-eyed_' from the roof of the chapel, and the scutcheon in\nMadeline's window '_blush'd_ with blood of queens and kings'.\n\nKeats's characteristic method of description--the way in which, by his\nmasterly choice of significant detail, he gives us the whole feeling of\nthe situation, is here seen in its perfection. In stanza 1 each line is\na picture and each picture contributes to the whole effect of painful\nchill. The silenc
    "author": "John Keats",
    "source": "Poems Published in 1820",
    "period": "1820"
  },
  {
    "title": "Ode To A Nightingale",
    "body": "  1.\n\n  My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains\n    My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,\n  Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains\n    One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:\n  'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,\n    But being too happy in thine happiness,--\n      That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,\n          In some melodious plot\n    Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,\n      Singest of summer in full-throated ease.\n\n  2.\n\n  O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been\n    Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,\n  Tasting of Flora and the country green,\n    Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!\n  O for a beaker full of the warm South,\n    Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,\n      With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,\n          And purple-stained mouth;\n    That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,\n      And with thee fade away into the forest dim:\n\n  3.\n\n  Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget\n    What thou among the leaves hast never known,\n  The weariness, the fever, and the fret\n    Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;\n  Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,\n    Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;\n      Where but to think is to be full of sorrow\n          And leaden-eyed despairs,\n    Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,\n      Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.\n\n  4.\n\n  Away! away! for I will fly to thee,\n    Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,\n  But on the viewless wings of Poesy,\n    Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:\n  Already with thee! tender is the night,\n    And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,\n      Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;\n          But here there is no light,\n    Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown\n      Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.\n\n  5.\n\n  I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,\n    Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,\n  But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet\n    Wherewith the seasonable month endows\n  The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;\n    White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;\n      Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;\n          And mid-May's eldest child,\n    The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,\n      The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.\n\n  6.\n\n  Darkling I listen; and, for many a time\n    I have been half in love with easeful Death,\n  Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,\n    To take into the air my quiet breath;\n  Now more than ever seems it rich to die,\n    To cease upon the midnight with no pain,\n      While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad\n          In such an ecstasy!\n    Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain--\n      To thy high requiem become a sod.\n\n  7.\n\n  Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!\n    No hungry generations tread thee down;\n  The voice I hear this passing night was heard\n    In ancient days by emperor and clown:\n  Perhaps the self-same song that found a path\n    Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,\n      She stood in tears amid the alien corn;\n          The same that oft-times hath\n    Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam\n      Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.\n\n  8.\n\n  Forlorn! the very word is like a bell\n    To toll me back from thee to my sole self!\n  Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well\n    As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.\n  Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades\n    Past the near meadows, over the still stream,\n      Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep\n          In the next valley-glades:\n    Was it a vision, or a waking dream?\n      Fled is that music:--Do I wake or sleep?",
    "author": "John Keats",
    "source": "Poems Published in 1820",
    "period": "1820"
  },
  {
    "title": "Ode On A Grecian Urn",
    "body": "  1.\n\n  Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,\n    Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,\n  Sylvan historian, who canst thus express\n    A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:\n  What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape\n    Of deities or mortals, or of both,\n      In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?\n    What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?\n  What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?\n      What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?\n\n  2.\n\n  Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard\n    Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;\n  Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,\n    Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:\n  Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave\n    Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;\n      Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,\n  Though winning near the goal--yet, do not grieve;\n    She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,\n      For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!\n\n  3.\n\n  Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed\n    Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;\n  And, happy melodist, unwearied,\n    For ever piping songs for ever new;\n  More happy love! more happy, happy love!\n    For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,\n      For ever panting, and for ever young;\n  All breathing human passion far above,\n    That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,\n      A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.\n\n  4.\n\n  Who are these coming to the sacrifice?\n    To what green altar, O mysterious priest,\n  Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,\n    And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?\n  What little town by river or sea shore,\n    Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,\n      Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?\n  And, little town, thy streets for evermore\n    Will silent be; and not a soul to tell\n      Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.\n\n  5.\n\n  O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede\n    Of marble men and maidens overwrought,\n  With forest branches and the trodden weed;\n    Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought\n  As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!\n    When old age shall this generation waste,\n      Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe\n  Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,\n    \"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,\"--that is all\n      Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.",
    "author": "John Keats",
    "source": "Poems Published in 1820",
    "period": "1820"
  },
  {
    "title": "Ode To Psyche",
    "body": "  O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung\n    By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,\n  And pardon that thy secrets should be sung\n    Even into thine own soft-conched ear:\n  Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see\n    The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes?\n  I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly,\n    And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,\n  Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side\n    In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof\n    Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran\n          A brooklet, scarce espied:\n  'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,\n    Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,\n  They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass;\n    Their arms embraced, and their pinions too;\n    Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu,\n  As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,\n  And ready still past kisses to outnumber\n    At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:\n        The winged boy I knew;\n    But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?\n        His Psyche true!\n\n  O latest born and loveliest vision far\n    Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!\n  Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star,\n    Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;\n  Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,\n      Nor altar heap'd with flowers;\n  Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan\n      Upon the midnight hours;\n  No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet\n    From chain-swung censer teeming;\n  No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat\n    Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.\n\n  O brightest! though too late for antique vows,\n    Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,\n  When holy were the haunted forest boughs,\n    Holy the air, the water, and the fire;\n  Yet even in these days so far retir'd\n    From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,\n    Fluttering among the faint Olympians,\n  I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.\n  So let me be thy choir, and make a moan\n      Upon the midnight hours;\n  Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet\n    From swinged censer teeming;\n  Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat\n    Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.\n\n  Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane\n    In some untrodden region of my mind,\n  Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,\n    Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:\n  Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees\n    Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;\n  And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,\n    The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep;\n  And in the midst of this wide quietness\n  A rosy sanctuary will I dress\n  With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain,\n    With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,\n  With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,\n    Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:\n  And there shall be for thee all soft delight\n    That shadowy thought can win,\n  A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,\n    To let the warm Love in!",
    "author": "John Keats",
    "source": "Poems Published in 1820",
    "period": "1820"
  },
  {
    "title": "Fancy",
    "body": "  Ever let the Fancy roam,\n  Pleasure never is at home:\n  At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,\n  Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;\n  Then let winged Fancy wander\n  Through the thought still spread beyond her:\n  Open wide the mind's cage-door,\n  She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.\n  O sweet Fancy! let her loose;\n  Summer's joys are spoilt by use,\n  And the enjoying of the Spring\n  Fades as does its blossoming;\n  Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too,\n  Blushing through the mist and dew,\n  Cloys with tasting: What do then?\n  Sit thee by the ingle, when\n  The sear faggot blazes bright,\n  Spirit of a winter's night;\n  When the soundless earth is muffled,\n  And the caked snow is shuffled\n  From the ploughboy's heavy shoon;\n  When the Night doth meet the Noon\n  In a dark conspiracy\n  To banish Even from her sky.\n  Sit thee there, and send abroad,\n  With a mind self-overaw'd,\n  Fancy, high-commission'd:--send her!\n  She has vassals to attend her:\n  She will bring, in spite of frost,\n  Beauties that the earth hath lost;\n  She will bring thee, all together,\n  All delights of summer weather;\n  All the buds and bells of May,\n  From dewy sward or thorny spray\n  All the heaped Autumn's wealth,\n  With a still, mysterious stealth:\n  She will mix these pleasures up\n  Like three fit wines in a cup,\n  And thou shalt quaff it:--thou shalt hear\n  Distant harvest-carols clear;\n  Rustle of the reaped corn;\n  Sweet birds antheming the morn:\n  And, in the same moment--hark!\n  'Tis the early April lark,\n  Or the rooks, with busy caw,\n  Foraging for sticks and straw.\n  Thou shalt, at one glance, behold\n  The daisy and the marigold;\n  White-plum'd lilies, and the first\n  Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;\n  Shaded hyacinth, alway\n  Sapphire queen of the mid-May;\n  And every leaf, and every flower\n  Pearled with the self-same shower.\n  Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep\n  Meagre from its celled sleep;\n  And the snake all winter-thin\n  Cast on sunny bank its skin;\n  Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see\n  Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,\n  When the hen-bird's wing doth rest\n  Quiet on her mossy nest;\n  Then the hurry and alarm\n  When the bee-hive casts its swarm;\n  Acorns ripe down-pattering,\n  While the autumn breezes sing.\n\n    Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose;\n  Every thing is spoilt by use:\n  Where's the cheek that doth not fade,\n  Too much gaz'd at? Where's the maid\n  Whose lip mature is ever new?\n  Where's the eye, however blue,\n  Doth not weary? Where's the face\n  One would meet in every place?\n  Where's the voice, however soft,\n  One would hear so very oft?\n  At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth\n  Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.\n  Let, then, winged Fancy find\n  Thee a mistress to thy mind:\n  Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter,\n  Ere the God of Torment taught her\n  How to frown and how to chide;\n  With a waist and with a side\n  White as Hebe's, when her zone\n  Slipt its golden clasp, and down\n  Fell her kirtle to her feet,\n  While she held the goblet sweet,\n  And Jove grew languid.--Break the mesh\n  Of the Fancy's silken leash;\n  Quickly break her prison-string\n  And such joys as these she'll bring.--\n  Let the winged Fancy roam\n  Pleasure never is at home.",
    "author": "John Keats",
    "source": "Poems Published in 1820",
    "period": "1820"
  },
  {
    "title": "Ode (Bards of Passion and of Mirth)",
    "body": "['BARDS OF PASSION AND OF MIRTH'].\n\nPAGE 128. l. 1. _Bards_, poets and singers.\n\nl. 8. _parle_, French _parler_. Cf. _Hamlet_, I. i. 62.\n\nl. 12. _Dian's fawns._ Diana was the goddess of hunting.\n\n\nINTRODUCTION TO",
    "author": "John Keats",
    "source": "Poems Published in 1820",
    "period": "1820"
  },
  {
    "title": "Lines On The Mermaid Tavern",
    "body": "The Mermaid Tavern was an old inn in Bread Street, Cheapside. Tradition\nsays that the literary club there was established by Sir Walter Raleigh\nin 1603. In any case it was, in Shakespeare's time, frequented by the\nchief writers of the day, amongst them Ben Jonson, Beaumont, Fletcher,\nSelden, Carew, Donne, and Shakespeare himself. Beaumont, in a poetical\nepistle to Ben Jonson, writes:\n\n     What things have we seen\n     Done at the Mermaid! heard words that have been\n     So nimble and so full of subtle flame,\n     As if that any one from whence they came\n     Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest,\n     And has resolved to live a fool the rest\n     Of his dull life.\n\n\nNOTES ON LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN.\n\nPAGE 131. l. 10. _bold Robin Hood._ Cf. _Robin Hood_, p. 133.\n\nl. 12. _bowse_, drink.\n\nPAGE 132. ll. 16-17. _an astrologer's . . . story._ The astrologer would\nrecord, on parchment, what he had seen in the heavens.\n\nl. 22. _The Mermaid . . . Zodiac._ The zodiac was an imaginary belt\nacross the heavens within which the sun and planets were supposed to\nmove. It was divided into twelve parts corresponding to the twelve\nmonths of the year, according to the position of the moon when full.\nEach of these parts had a sign by which it was known, and the sign of\nthe tenth was a fish-tailed goat, to which Keats refers as the Mermaid.\nThe word _zodiac_ comes from the Greek +zôdion+, meaning\na little animal, since originally all the signs were animals.\n\n\nINTRODUCTION TO",
    "author": "John Keats",
    "source": "Poems Published in 1820",
    "period": "1820"
  },
  {
    "title": "Robin Hood",
    "body": "TO A FRIEND.\n\n\n  No! those days are gone away,\n  And their hours are old and gray,\n  And their minutes buried all\n  Under the down-trodden pall\n  Of the leaves of many years:\n  Many times have winter's shears,\n  Frozen North, and chilling East,\n  Sounded tempests to the feast\n  Of the forest's whispering fleeces,\n  Since men knew nor rent nor leases.\n\n    No, the bugle sounds no more,\n  And the twanging bow no more;\n  Silent is the ivory shrill\n  Past the heath and up the hill;\n  There is no mid-forest laugh,\n  Where lone Echo gives the half\n  To some wight, amaz'd to hear\n  Jesting, deep in forest drear.\n\n    On the fairest time of June\n  You may go, with sun or moon,\n  Or the seven stars to light you,\n  Or the polar ray to right you;\n  But you never may behold\n  Little John, or Robin bold;\n  Never one, of all the clan,\n  Thrumming on an empty can\n  Some old hunting ditty, while\n  He doth his green way beguile\n  To fair hostess Merriment,\n  Down beside the pasture Trent;\n  For he left the merry tale\n  Messenger for spicy ale.\n\n    Gone, the merry morris din;\n  Gone, the song of Gamelyn;\n  Gone, the tough-belted outlaw\n  Idling in the \"grenè shawe;\"\n  All are gone away and past!\n  And if Robin should be cast\n  Sudden from his turfed grave,\n  And if Marian should have\n  Once again her forest days,\n  She would weep, and he would craze:\n  He would swear, for all his oaks,\n  Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes,\n  Have rotted on the briny seas;\n  She would weep that her wild bees\n  Sang not to her--strange! that honey\n  Can't be got without hard money!\n\n    So it is: yet let us sing,\n  Honour to the old bow-string!\n  Honour to the bugle-horn!\n  Honour to the woods unshorn!\n  Honour to the Lincoln green!\n  Honour to the archer keen!\n  Honour to tight little John,\n  And the horse he rode upon!\n  Honour to bold Robin Hood,\n  Sleeping in the underwood!\n  Honour to maid Marian,\n  And to all the Sherwood-clan!\n  Though their days have hurried by\n  Let us two a burden try.",
    "author": "John Keats",
    "source": "Poems Published in 1820",
    "period": "1820"
  },
  {
    "title": "To Autumn",
    "body": "  1.\n\n  Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,\n    Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;\n  Conspiring with him how to load and bless\n    With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;\n  To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,\n    And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;\n      To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells\n  With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,\n    And still more, later flowers for the bees,\n    Until they think warm days will never cease,\n      For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.\n\n  2.\n\n  Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?\n    Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find\n  Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,\n    Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;\n  Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,\n    Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook\n      Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:\n  And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep\n    Steady thy laden head across a brook;\n    Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,\n      Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.\n\n  3.\n\n  Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?\n    Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--\n  While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,\n    And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;\n  Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn\n    Among the river sallows, borne aloft\n      Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;\n  And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;\n    Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft\n    The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;\n      And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.",
    "author": "John Keats",
    "source": "Poems Published in 1820",
    "period": "1820"
  },
  {
    "title": "Ode On Melancholy",
    "body": "  1.\n\n  No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist\n    Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;\n  Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd\n    By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;\n  Make not your rosary of yew-berries,\n    Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be\n      Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl\n  A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;\n    For shade to shade will come too drowsily,\n      And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.\n\n  2.\n\n  But when the melancholy fit shall fall\n    Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,\n  That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,\n    And hides the green hill in an April shroud;\n  Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,\n    Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,\n      Or on the wealth of globed peonies;\n  Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,\n    Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,\n      And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.\n\n  3.\n\n  She dwells with Beauty--Beauty that must die;\n    And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips\n  Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,\n    Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:\n  Ay, in the very temple of Delight\n    Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,\n      Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue\n  Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;\n    His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,\n      And be among her cloudy trophies hung.",
    "author": "John Keats",
    "source": "Poems Published in 1820",
    "period": "1820"
  }
]