To Sleep, by John Keats

O soft embalmer of the still midnight!   Shutting with careful fingers and benign Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower’d from the light,   Enshaded in forgetfulness divine; O soothest 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 passèd day will shine Upon my pillow, breeding many woes; Save me from curious conscience, that still lords   Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole; Turn the key deftly in the oilèd wards,   And seal the hushèd casket of my soul.

Ode to Psyche, by John 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 winged Psyche with awaken’d eyes? I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly,          And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side          In deepest grass, beneath the whisp’ring roof          Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran                 A brooklet, scarce espied: Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,          Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, They lay calm-breathing, on the bedded grass;          Their arms embraced, and their pinions too;          Their lips touch’d not, but had not bade adieu, As if disjoined 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 wast thou, O happy, happy dove?                 His Psyche true! O latest born and loveliest vision far          Of all Olympus’ faded hierarchy! Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region’d star,          Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,                 Nor altar heap’d with flowers; Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan                 Upon the midnight hours; No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet          From chain-swung censer teeming; No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat          Of pale-mouth’d prophet dreaming. O brightest! though too late for antique vows,          Too, too late for the fond believing lyre, When holy were the haunted forest boughs,          Holy the air, the water, and the fire; Yet even in these days so far retir’d          From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,          Fluttering among the faint Olympians, I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspir’d. So let me be thy choir, and make a moan                 Upon the midnight hours; Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet          From swinged censer teeming; Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat          Of pale-mouth’d prophet dreaming. Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane          In some untrodden region of my mind, Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,          Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: Far, far around shall those dark-cluster’d trees          Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep; And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,          The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull’d to sleep; And in the midst of this wide quietness A rosy sanctuary will I dress With the wreath’d trellis of a working brain,          With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, With all the gardener Fancy e’er could feign,          Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same: And there shall be for thee all soft delight          That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,          To let the warm Love in!

What the Thrush Said, by John Keats

O Thou whose face hath felt the Winter’s wind, Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist, And the black elm tops ’mong the freezing stars, To thee the spring will be a harvest-time. O thou, whose only book has been the light Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on Night after night when Phœbus was away, To thee the Spring shall be a triple morn. O fret not after knowledge—I have none, And yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge—I have none, And yet the Evening listens. He who saddens At the thought of idleness cannot be idle, And he’s awake who thinks himself asleep.

“On the Grasshopper and Cricket” John Keats’s Poems (C. & J. Ollier, 1817).

The poetry of earth is never dead:
  When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
  And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper’s—he takes the lead
  In summer luxury,—he has never done
  With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
  On a lone winter evening, when the frost
    Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,
  And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
    The Grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.