Poetry of John Keats by John Keats
Sonnet Keen, Fitful Gusts Are Whisp’ring
Keen, Fitful Gusts Are Whisp’ring
Keen, fitful gusts are whisp’ring here and there Among the bushes half leafless, and dry; The stars look very cold about the sky, And I have many miles on foot to fare. Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air, Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily, Or of those silver lamps that burn on high, Or of the distance from home’s pleasant lair: For I am brimful of the friendliness That in a little cottage I have found; Of fair-hair’d Milton’s eloquent distress, And all his love for gentle Lycid drown’d; Of lovely Laura in her light green dress, And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown’d.