Ode to psyche
Keats

O Goddess! Hear these tuneless numbers,wrung
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
Even into thine own-soft conched-ear:
Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see
The wingéd Psyche with awakened eyes?
I wandered in a forest thoughlessly,
And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
Saw two fair creatures, couchéd side by side
In deepest grass, beneath the whispring roof
Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran
A brooklet, scarce espied:
‘Mid hushed, cool-rooted flowers, fragant-eyed,
blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,
They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass;
Their armed embraced, and their pinions too:
Their lips touched not, but had not bade adieu,
As if disjoinéd by soft-handed slumber,
And ready still past kisses to outnumber
At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:

The winged boy I knew;
But who was thou, O happy dove?

A drama after reading Dante’s episode of Paolo and Francesca
Keats

As Hermes once took to his feathers light,
When lullèd Argus, baffled, swooned and slept,
So on a Delphic reed, my idle spright
So played, so charmed, so conquered, so bereft
The dragon-world of all its hundred eyes;
And, seeing it asleep, so flew away-
Not to pure Ida with its snow-cold skies,
Nor unto Tempe where Jove grieved that day;
But to that second circle of sad hell,
Where in the gust, the whirwind, and the flaw
Of rain and hail-stones, lovers need not to tell
Their sorrows.Pale were the sweet lips I saw;
Pale were the lips I kissed, and fair the form
I floated with, about the melancholy storm.

His Psyche true!

To sleep
Keats

O soft embalsamer of the still midnight,
Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
Our gloom-pleased eyes, embowered from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:
Oh soothes Sleep! If so it please thee, close
In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes,
Or wait the “Amen, ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities.
Then save me, or the passed day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes;
Save me from curious conscience, that still hoards
Its strenght for darkness,burrowing like the mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oiléd wards,
And seal the hushéd casket of my soul.