Poem by James Henry Leigh Hunt

To John Keats

'Tis well you think me truly one of those,
Whose sense discerns the loveliness of things;
For surely as I feel the bird that sings
Behind the leaves, or dawn as it up grows,
Or the rich bee rejoicing as he goes,
Or the glad issue of emerging springs,
Or overhead the glide of a dove's wings,
Or turf, or trees, or, midst of all, repose.
And surely as I feel things lovelier still,
The human look, and the harmonious form
Containing woman, and the smile in ill,
And such a heart as Charles's, wise and warm,--
As surely as all this, I see, ev'n now,
Young Keats, a flowering laurel on your brow. 

1. Bodryddan
2. A Thought or Two on Reading Pomfret's
3. Ariadne Waking
4. Sudden Fine Weather
5. Bellman's Verses for 1814

Amy Lowell To John Keats ("Great master! Boyish, sympathetic man!")

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