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John Bartlett (1820–1905). Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. 1919.

Page 576

John Keats. (1795–1821) (continued)
    Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
          Ode on a Grecian Urn.
    Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
  Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on,—
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,
  Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.
          Ode on a Grecian Urn.
    Thou, silent form, doth tease us out of thought
  As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
          Ode on a Grecian Urn.
    Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
  Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
          Ode on a Grecian Urn.
    In a drear-nighted December,
  Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne’er remember
  Their green felicity.
    Hear ye not the hum
Of mighty workings?
          Addressed to Haydon. Sonnet x.
    Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold,
  And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
  Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
  That deep-brow’d Homer ruled as his demesne,
  Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
  When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
  He stared at the Pacific, and all his men
Look’d at each other with a wild surmise,
  Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
          On first looking into Chapman’s Homer.
    E’en like the passage of an angel’s tear
That falls through the clear ether silently.
          To One who has been long in City pent.