Written In The Cottage Where Burns Was Born

This mortal body of a thousand days
Now fills, O Burns, a space in thine own room,
Where thou didst dream alone on budded bays,
Happy and thoughtless of thy day of doom!
My pulse is warm with thine old barley-bree,
My head is light with pledging a great soul,
My eyes are wandering, and I cannot see,
Fancy is dead and drunken at its goal;
Yet can I stamp my foot upon thy floor,
Yet can I ope thy window-sash to find
The meadow thou hast tramped o'er and o'er,
Yet can I think of thee till thought is blind,
Yet can I gulp a bumper to thy name,
O smile among the shades, for this is fame!

John Keats

John Keats was an English Romantic poet who is among the most beloved of all English poets. His work is characterized by sensual imagery, most notably in his series of odes. Though his poems were not generally well-received by critics during his lifetime, his reputation grew posthumously. Keats’ work, such as "Ode to a Nightingale", and "To Autumn", has had a lasting effect on many writers and artists. He died at the young age of 25 from tuberculosis.

John Keats

Sonnet To Chatterton

John Keats, Simple Poetry

Song Of Four Faries

John Keats, Simple Poetry

Two Or Three

John Keats, Simple Poetry

Sharing Eve's Apple

John Keats, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

On Visiting The Tomb Of Burns

The town, the churchyard, and the setting sun,
The clouds, the trees, the rounded hills all seem,
Though beautiful, cold, strange, as in a dream
I dreamed long ago, now new begun.
The short-liv'd, paly summer is but won
From winter's ague for one hour's gleam;
Through sapphire warm their stars do never beam:
All is cold Beauty; pain is never done.
For who has mind to relish, Minos-wise,
The real of Beauty, free from that dead hue
Sickly imagination and sick pride
Cast wan upon it? Burns! with honour due
I oft have honour'd thee. Great shadow, hide
Thy face; I sin against thy native skies.

John Keats

Lines Written In The Highlands After A Visit To Burns's Country

There is a charm in footing slow across a silent plain,
Where patriot battle has been fought, where glory had the gain;
There is a pleasure on the heath where Druids old have been,
Where mantles grey have rustled by and swept the nettles green;
There is a joy in every spot made known by times of old,
New to the feet, although each tale a hundred times be told;
There is a deeper joy than all, more solemn in the heart,
More parching to the tongue than all, of more divine a smart,
When weary steps forget themselves upon a pleasant turf,
Upon hot sand, or flinty road, or sea-shore iron scurf,
Toward the castle or the cot, where long ago was born
One who was great through mortal days, and died of fame unshorn.
Light heather-bells may tremble then, but they are far away;
Wood-lark...

John Keats

Ode To The Memory Of Burns

Soul of the Poet! wheresoe'er,
Reclaimed from earth, thy genius plume
Her wings of immortality;
Suspend thy harp in happier sphere,
And with thine influence illume
The gladness of our jubilee.

And fly like fiends from secret spell,
Discord and Strife, at Burn's name,
Exorcised by his memory;
For he was chief of bards that swell
The heart with songs of social flame,
And high delicious revelry.

And Love's own strain to him was given,
To warble all its ecstacies
With Pythian words unsought, unwilled,
Love, the surviving gift of Heaven
The choicest sweet of Paradise,
In life's else bitter cup distilled.

Who that has melted o'er his lay
To Mary's soul, in Heaven above ,
But pictured sees, in fancy strong,
The landscape and...

Thomas Campbell

To Burns.

Suggested on returning home for my holidays by an old portrait of the poet, which hangs in my room.

    Old friend! - I always loved thee;
        In childhood's early days,
    Delighted I would listen
        With laughter to thy lays.

    And better still I loved thee,
        To riper boyhood grown;
    Because thou wert the pride of
        The land that's part my own.

    But with devotion deepened
        I greet thee now anew,
    Of love, because thou singest
        So simple, sweet, and true.

W. M. MacKeracher

Robert Burns.

(A PARAPHRASE.)


I.

Thou lingering Star! No less'ning ray
    Will e'er bedim thy natal morn,
Or usher in the unhallowed day
    When we forget that thou wert born!
O Burns! Thou dear departed shade!
    Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou again a Highland maid,
    Who heard the groans that rent thy breast?


II.

That sacred day can we forget,
    Can we forget the hallowed spot
Where by the winding Ayr was set
    The sparkling jewel in lowly cot?
Eternity will not efface
    The record dear of time that's past;
Thy memory sweet we still embrace,
    And will as long as life shall last!


III.

Ayr, congealèd to its pebbled shore,
    O'erhung with wild woods, shorn of gree...

George W. Doneghy

Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 II. At The Grave Of Burns, 1803

SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH

I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold,
At thought of what I now behold:
As vapours breathed from dungeons cold,
Strike pleasure dead,
So sadness comes from out the mould
Where Burns is laid.

And have I then thy bones so near,
And thou forbidden to appear?
As if it were thyself that's here
I shrink with pain;
And both my wishes and my fear
Alike are vain.

Off weight, nor press on weight! away
Dark thoughts! they came, but not to stay;
With chastened feelings would I pay
The tribute due
To him, and aught that hides his clay
From mortal view.

Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth
He sang, his genius "glinted" forth,
Rose like a star that touching earth,
For so it seems,
Doth glori...

William Wordsworth