Explore "To Spenser" by John Keats on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Spenser! a jealous honourer of thine, / A forester deep in thy midmost trees, / Did last eve ask my promise to refine / Some English that might strive thine ear to please.
But Elfin Poet, 'tis impossible / For an inhabitant of wintry earth / To rise like Phœbus 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
Will for thine honour and his pleasure try.