John Keats

: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

Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy ,To those who woo her with too slavish knees ,But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy ;And dotes the more upon a heart at ease

هو جون كيتس ولد في لندن في 31 أكتوبر 1795، وهو الابن الأكبر لتوماس وفرانسيس جينينغز كيتس، توفي عن عمر ينهاز الخامسة والعشرين، وكان له أكثر مهنة رائعة من أي شاعر إنجليزي آخر

My spirit is too weak—mortality ,Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep And each imagined pinnacle and steep Of godlike hardship tells me I must die

,In drear nighted December ,Too happy, happy tree Thy branches ne’er remember —Their green felicity

,When by my solitary hearth I sit ;And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom ,When no fair dreams before my “mind’s eye” flit ;And the bare heath of life presents no bloom

!O golden-tongued Romance with serene lute !Fair plumed Syren! Queen of far away ,Leave melodizing on this wintry day :Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute

,If by dull rhymes our English must be chain’d And, like Andromeda, the sonnet sweet ;Fetter’d, in spite of painéd loveliness ,Let us find out, if we must be constrain’d

You say you love; but with a voice Chaster than a nun’s, who singeth The soft Vespers to herself – While the chime-bell ringeth  !O love me truly

It keeps eternal whisperings around Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell Gluts twice ten thousand Caverns, till the spell .Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound

Give me your patience, sister, while I frame ;Exact in capitals your golden name Or sue the fair Apollo and he will Rouse from his heavy slumber and instill

,O soft embalmer of the still midnight ,Shutting, with careful fingers and benign ,Our gloom-pleas’d eyes, embower’d from the light :Enshaded in forgetfulness divine

,To one who has been long in city pent Tis very sweet to look into the fair‘ And open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayer .Full in the smile of the blue firmament

: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

,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

,O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell Let it not be among the jumbled heap —,Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep ,Nature’s observatory—whence the dell

هي قصيدة من تأليف جون كيتس (John Keats)، وهو أحد أكثر الشعراء الرومانسيين الإنجليز دراسة واحترامًا، وفي القصيدة يروي فارس من القرون الوسطى مرحًا خياليًا في الريف مع امرأة جميلة

,One morn before me were three figures seen ;With bowèd necks, and joinèd hands, side-faced ,And one behind the other stepp’d serene ;In placid sandals, and in white robes graced

,There was a naughty boy ,A naughty boy was he ,He would not stop at home -He could not quiet be

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعر جون كيتس، يخاطب الشاعر عبر هذه السونيتة نهر النيل مباشرة على غرار قصائده العظيمة مثل قصيدة الخريف أو القصيدة على جرة إغريقية، يبدو أنّ الشاعر قد استيقظ من أحلام اليقظة بسحر النيل وبدأ يفكر في الجمال الطبيعي للنهر.