Much have I traveled 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-browed Homer ruled as his demesne; Yet never did I 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 Looked at each other with a wild surmise— Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
John Keats - 1795-1821
I cry your mercy—pity—love!—ay, love
To Fanny. I cry your mercy—pity—love!—ay, love! Merciful love that tantalises not One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love, Unmask'd, and being seen—without a blot! O! let me have thee whole,—all—all—be mine! That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest Of love, your kiss,—those hands, those eyes divine, That warm, white, lucent, million-pleasured breast,— Yourself—your soul—in pity give me all, Withhold no atom's atom or I die, Or living on, perhaps, your wretched thrall, Forget, in the mist of idle misery, Life's purposes,—the palate of my mind Losing its gust, and my ambition blind!