Sonnet IX - Keats

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 brimfull 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.

I. To My Brother George
II. To * * * * * *
III. Written on the day that Mr. Leigh Hunt left Prison
IV.
V. To a Friend who sent me some Roses
VI. To G. A. W
VII.
VIII. To My Brothers
IX.
X.
XI. On first looking into Chapman's Homer
XII. On leaving some Friends at an early Hour
XIII. Addressed to Haydon
XIV. Addressed to the Same
XV. On the Grasshopper and Cricket
XVI. To Kosciusko
XVII. - Keats