Sonnet XIII: Addressed To Haydon

by John Keats

    High-mindedness, 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-mongering, pitiable brood.
    How glorious this affection for the cause
    Of steadfast genius, toiling gallantly!
    What when a stout unbending champion awes
    Envy and malice to their native sty?
    Unnumbered souls breathe out a still applause,
    Proud to behold him in his country's eye.