Poems, by John Keats

The Gothic looks solemn,

The plain Doric column

Supports an old Bishop and Crosier;

The mouldering arch,

Shaded o’er by a larch

Stands next door to Wilson the Hosier.

Vice — that is, by turns, —

O’er pale faces mourns

The black tassell’d trencher and common hat;

The Chantry boy sings,

The Steeple-bell rings,

And as for the Chancellor — dominat.

There are plenty of trees,

And plenty of ease,

And plenty of fat deer for Parsons;

And when it is venison,

Short is the benison, —

Then each on a leg or thigh fastens.