Keats' Poems and Letters

Sonnet 13: Addressed to Haydon

Highmindedness, a jealousy for good,

A loving-kindness for the great man's fame,

Dwells here and there with people of no name,

In noisome alley, and in pathless wood:

And where we think the truth least understood,

Oft may be found a "singleness of aim,"

That ought to frighten into hooded shame

A money mong'ring, pitiable brood.

How glorious this affection for the cause

Of stedfast genius, toiling gallantly!

What when a stout unbending champion awes

Envy, and Malice to their native sty?

Unnumber'd souls breathe out a still applause,

Proud to behold him in his country's eye.