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

Apollo’s very leaves, woven to bless

By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear.

Lo! who dares say, “Do this”? Who dares call down

My will from its high purpose? Who say,”Stand,”

Or, “Go”? This mighty moment I would frown

On abject Caesars—not the stoutest band

Of mailed heroes should tear off my crown:

Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle hand.

 

***

John Keats

More poems by John Keats