Explore "To my Brothers" by John Keats on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Small, busy flames play through the fresh-laid coals, / And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep / Like whispers of the household gods that keep / A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls.
And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles, / Your eyes are fix'd, as in poetic sleep, / Upon the lore so voluble and deep, / That aye at fall of night our care condoles.
This is your birth-day, Tom, and I rejoice / That thus it passes smoothly, quietly:
Many such eves of gently whisp'ring noise / May we together pass, and calmly try / What are this world's true joys, -- ere the great Voice, / From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly.