Poem by John Keats

Addressed to Haydon

High-mindedness, a jealousy for good,
A loving-kindness for the great man's fame,
Dwells here and there with people of no name,
In noisome alley, and in pathless wood:
And where we think the truth least understood,
Oft may be found a "singleness of aim,"
That ought to frighten into hooded shame
A money-mongering, pitiable brood.
How glorious this affection for the cause
Of steadfast genius, toiling gallantly!
What when a stout unbending champion awes
Envy and malice to their native sty?
Unnumbered souls breathe out a still applause,
Proud to behold him in his country's eye. 

1. What the Thrush Said
2. Written in Answer to a Sonnet by J.H. Reynolds
3. To a Lady Seen for a Few Moments at Vauxhall
4. Song (“The stranger lighted from his steed”)
5. Song of Four Faries

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