The Poetical Works of John Keats: With a Life |
µµ¼ º»¹®¿¡¼
256 ÆäÀÌÁö
Thou wast not born for death , immortal Bird ! No hungry generations tread thee down ; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown : Perhaps the self - same song that found a path Through the sad ...
Thou wast not born for death , immortal Bird ! No hungry generations tread thee down ; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown : Perhaps the self - same song that found a path Through the sad ...
´Ù¸¥ »ç¶÷µéÀÇ ÀÇ°ß - ¼Æò ¾²±â
¼ÆòÀ» ãÀ» ¼ö ¾ø½À´Ï´Ù.
±âŸ ÃâÆÇº» - ¸ðµÎ º¸±â
ÀÚÁÖ ³ª¿À´Â ´Ü¾î ¹× ±¸¹®
arms beauty beneath bliss blue breast breath bright clear close clouds cold dark dead death deep delight divine doth dream earth Endymion eyes face fair fear feel feet felt flowers forest gentle give golden gone green hair hand happy hast head hear heard heart heaven hour Keats keep kiss leaves light lips live look morning mortal never night o'er once pain pale pass passion pleasant pleasure poet poor rest rose round seen shade side sigh silent silver sing sleep smile soft song soon sorrow soul sound speak spirit stars stood strange streams sweet tears tell tender thee thine things thou thought took trees trembling twas voice warm wide wild wind wings wonders young youth
Àαâ Àο뱸
265 ÆäÀÌÁö - Where are the songs of Spring ? Ay, where are they ? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
189 ÆäÀÌÁö - St Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold : Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath, Like pious incense from a censer old, Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death, Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith...
266 ÆäÀÌÁö - She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to Poison while the bee-mouth sips: Ay, in the very temple of delight Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine...
35 ÆäÀÌÁö - A THING of beauty is a joy for ever : Its loveliness increases ; it will never Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
256 ÆäÀÌÁö - Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades : Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music : — do I wake or sleep ? ODE ON A GRECIAN URN.
199 ÆäÀÌÁö - And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite: Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache.
16 ÆäÀÌÁö - And strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tongue-tied by authority...
348 ÆäÀÌÁö - I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!
167 ÆäÀÌÁö - Do not all charms fly At the mere touch of cold philosophy ? There was an awful rainbow once in heaven : We know her woof, her texture ; she is given In the dull catalogue of common things. Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine — Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made The tender-person'd Lamia melt into a shade.
264 ÆäÀÌÁö - To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease ; For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.