Poems, by John Keats

For There’s Bishop’s Teign


For there’s Bishop’s teign

And King’s teign

And Coomb at the clear Teign head —

Where close by the stream

You may have your cream

All spread upon barley bread.


There’s Arch Brook

And there’s Larch Brook

Both turning many a mill,

And cooling the drouth

Of the salmon’s mouth

And fattening his silver gill.


There is Wild Wood,

A mild hood

To the sheep on the lea o’ the down,

Where the golden furze,

With its green, thin spurs,

Doth catch at the maiden’s gown.


There is Newton Marsh

With its spear grass harsh —

A pleasant summer level

Where the maidens sweet

Of the Market Street

Do meet in the dusk to revel.


There’s the Barton rich

With dyke and ditch

And hedge for the thrush to live in,

And the hollow tree

For the buzzing bee

And a bank for the wasp to hive in.


And O, and

The daisies blow

And the primroses are waken’d,

And violets white

Sit in silver plight,

And the green bud’s as long as the spike end.


Then who would go

Into dark Soho

And chatter with dack’d-hair’d critics,

When he can stay

For the new-mown hay

And startle the dappled prickets?


Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:56