I know this is suposed to be about Keats, but I'd like to share a few poems which some people who enjoy Keats might like:
“I know Love’s destitution
and have no heart to put into my verse.
And so I try to imitate the man
who covers up his poverty for shame:
I wear the clothes of joy,
but in my heart I weep and waste away.”
Dante, Vita nuova VII.
“…Love’s attack is so precipitous
that life itself all but abandons me:
nothing survives except one lonely spirit,
allowed to live because it speaks of you.
With hope of help to come I gather courage,
and deathly languid, drained of all defences,
I come to you expecting to be healed;
and if I raise my eyes to look at you,
within my heart a tremor starts to spread,
driving out life, stopping my pulses’ beat.”
Ibid, XVI
With my own eyes I saw how much compassion
there was in the expression of your face,
when you saw how I looked and how I acted
(it is my grief that forces me to this).
Then I became aware that you had seen
into the nature of my darkened life,
and this aroused a fear within my heart
of showing in my eyes my wretched state.
I fled, then, from your presence as I felt
the tears begin to overflow my heart
that was exalted at the sight of you.
Later, within my anguished soul, I said:
“There must dwell within that lady that same Love
that makes me go about like this in tears.”
Ibid, XXXV
“First love will with the heart remain
When all its hopes are bye
As frail rose blossoms still retain
Their fragrance till they die
And joy’s first dreams will haunt the mind
With shades from whence they sprung
As summer leaves the stems behind
On which spring’s blossoms hung”
John Clare, From ‘First Love’s Recollections’
Love
Love is a secret
Like a bird in a shell
Like a rose ere it blossom
All unseen will it dwell.
‘Tis the kernel of fruits
The germ of all flowers
The blaze of the diamond
The moment of hours.
‘Tis the star in night’s darkness
The sky in the river
The soul in man’s bosom
That wears it for ever.
‘Tis a word, and the dearest
Each language has shown
‘Tis a thought the sincerest
Any tongue has made known.
‘Tis a flower in a basket
All bloom and perfuming
‘Tis the gem of the casket
Love, beauty, and woman.
John Clare
First Love
I ne’er was struck before that hour
With love so sudden and so sweet,
her face it bloomed like a sweet flower
And stole my heart away complete.
My face turned pale as deadly pale,
My legs refused to walk away,
And when she looked, what could I ail?
My life and all seemed turned to clay.
And then my blood rushed to my face
And took my eyesight quite away,
The trees and bushes round the place
Seemed midnight at noonday.
I could not see a single thing,
Words from my eyes did start –
They spoke as chords do from the string,
And blood burnt round my heart.
Are flowers the winter’s choice?
Is love’s bed always snow?
She seemed to hear my silent voice,
Not love’s appeal to know.
I never saw so sweet a face
As that I stood before.
My heart has left its dwelling-place
And can return no more.
Ibid
Love’s Pains
This love – I canna bear it,
It cheats me night and day;
This love – I canna wear it,
It takes my peace away.
This love – was once a flower;
But now it is a thorn, -
The joy o’ evening hour
Turn’d to pain ere morn.
This love – it was a bud,
And a secret known to me;
Like a flower within a wood;
Like a nest within a tree.
This love, wrong understood,
Oft turned my join to pain;
I tried to throw away the bud,
But the blossom would remain.
Ibid