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4 giorni fa · To Autumn. I. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom- friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless. With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells.
1 giorno fa · Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star, Sat gray-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone, Still as the silence round about his lair; Forest on forest hung above his head. Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day. Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass,
5 giorni fa · To Kosciusko. Good Kosciusko, thy great name alone. Is a full harvest whence to reap high feeling; It comes upon us like the glorious pealing. Of the wide spheres - an everlasting tone. And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown, The names of heroes, burst from clouds concealing, And changed to harmonies, for ever stealing.
5 giorni fa · Gli studenti diventano poeti nel nome di John Keats. Premiati ragazzi e ragazze con i migliori componimenti. Redazione 23 maggio 2024 08:13. I ragazzi premiati. Si è concluso " San Giovanni città della poesia ", il progetto, proposto da Pro loco San Giovanni in Marignano con la collaborazione di Scuolinfesta Informa ed il patrocinio del ...
3 giorni fa · To rise like Phoebus with a golden quill. Fire-wing'd and make a morning in his mirth. It is impossible to escape from toil. O' the sudden and receive thy spiriting: The flower must drink the nature of the soil. Before it can put forth its blossoming: Be with me in the summer days, and I.
2 giorni fa · To A Young Lady Who Sent Me A Laurel Crown. Fresh morning gusts have blown away all fear. From my glad bosom, -- now from gloominess. I mount for ever -- not an atom less. Than the proud laurel shall content my bier. No! by the eternal stars! or why sit here. In the Sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples press.
3 giorni fa · With a silken thread of my own hands' weaving. Sweet little red feet! Why should you die-. Why would you leave me, sweet bird! why? You lived alone in the forest tree; Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me? I kiss 'd you oft and gave you white peas; Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees? John Keats.
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