John Keats was born on October 31, 1795, making today something of a sacred day among versifiers and lovers of English verse.

A SONG ABOUT MYSELF

                    I.
There was a naughty boy,
   A naughty boy was he,
He would not stop at home,
   He could not quiet be— 
      He took
      In his knapsack
      A book
      Full of vowels
      And a shirt
      With some towels,
      A slight cap
      For night cap,
      A hair brush,
      Comb ditto,
      New stockings
      For old ones
      Would split O!
      This knapsack
      Tight at's back
      He rivetted close
   And followed his nose
      To the north,
      To the north,
   And follow'd his nose
      To the north.

                    II.
There was a naughty boy
   And a naughty boy was he,
For nothing would he do
   But scribble poetry— 
      He took
      An ink stand
      In his hand
      And a pen
      Big as ten
      In the other,
      And away
      In a pother
      He ran
      To the mountains
      And fountains
      And ghostes
      And postes
      And witches
      And ditches
      And wrote
      In his coat
      When the weather
      Was cool,
      Fear of gout,
      And without
      When the weather
      Was warm— 
      Och the charm
      When we choose
   To follow one's nose
      To the north,
      To the north,
   To follow one's nose
      To the north!

                    III.
There was a naughty boy
   And a naughty boy was he,
He kept little fishes
   In washing tubs three
      In spite
      Of the might
      Of the maid
      Nor afraid
      Of his Granny-good— 
      He often would
      Hurly burly
      Get up early
      And go
      By hook or crook
      To the brook
      And bring home
      Miller's thumb,
      Tittlebat
      Not over fat,
      Minnows small
      As the stall
      Of a glove,
      Not above
      The size
      Of a nice
      Little baby's
      Little fingers— 
      O he made
      'Twas his trade
   Of fish a pretty kettle
      A kettle-
      A kettle
   Of fish a pretty kettle
      A kettle!

                    IV.
There was a naughty boy,
   And a naughty boy was he,
He ran away to Scotland
   The people for to see— 
      There he found
      That the ground
      Was as hard,
      That a yard
      Was as long,
      That a song
      Was as merry,
      That a cherry
      Was as red,
      That lead
      Was as weighty,
      That fourscore
      Was as eighty,
      That a door
      Was as wooden
      As in England— 
   So he stood in his shoes
      And he wonder'd,
      He wonder'd,
   He stood in his
      Shoes and he wonder'd.

I live with pain that goes untold
    Except here in my verse,
The tenor of it growing old,
    Not either less nor worse.

Complaints to doctors got me naught,
    "It is not bad enough,"
So I endured, and so was taught
    The going can get tough.

Alas, young men, ye hardly know
    What trials ye may face
Upon the road ahead—what woe,
    Indignity or grace.

The hoped for love may never come,
    The hoped for rescue either,
And even though life strikes you dumb
    You cannot get a breather,

Until the last of this shall lapse,
    The end of breath for me— 
So I may yet greet new mishaps
    Until the death of me.

What little bit of grace may come,
    Recurs but in my thought,
Enough to balance all my sum
    With any luck, to naught,
​
Or just a decimal higher—that's
    The thought of you redeems
Though every hope fell through the slats
    Retrieveless but in dreams.

You glanced at me and I was charmed
    Across the marketplace,
My sensibilities disarmed— 
    You recognized my face.

A fleeting glance and then it passed:
   You looked away again,
And I returned unto that fast,
   Customary disdain.

For I am famished, I am starved
    To have your least affection;
As through the hubbub your glance carved
    Its path I lost dejection.

A momentary lapse—and I
    Briefly won my ambition,
Which steadfastly you yet deny:
    To gain your recognition.

I will go to the marketplace,
    Returning year on year— 
Searching for that one touch of grace
    So seldom to appear.

The rarity of it, dear heart,
    So fiercely coveted,
I try to capture in my art
    And will till I am dead.

Till then yet I must put away
    The hopes for such a glance— 
It was a fluke occurred today
    And terrible mischance.

Amidst the hustle and the bluster— 
    So many bought and sold
Varieties of love—I muster
    My courage, growing old.

Amidst the hubbub loneliness
    Is all I have to feel,
But cutting through life's blessed mess
    Your gaze made me feel real. 

I will not die content, but should
    It be today, tomorrow,
You let me feel a touch of good
​    Amidst a world of sorrow.

​The tops of trees begin to turn
To red, as though about to burn,
While I, aware the coming fall,
Disdain their dressage autumnal.

In them my own demise I see
Now aged and creaky as a tree,
While my gaunt limbs can barely stretch
And sap is gone that used to letch.

'Tis all part of a season: I
Observe and merely wonder why— 
To leaves it is no holocaust
While I am old, and wholy lost.

I do not rejoice in the death of an enemy. I've lived long enough to begin to see it—the death of friends, too—and take no pleasure in it.

​About one such individual, a corrupting influence in the world of theater, I wrote: