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      1. Poems by John Keats


        Song of the Indian Maid 
        FROM 'ENDYMION'


        O SORROW! 
        Why dost borrow 
        The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips?— 
        To give maiden blushes 
        To the white rose bushes? 5 
        Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips? 

        O Sorrow! 
        Why dost borrow 
        The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye?— 
        To give the glow-worm light? 10 
        Or, on a moonless night, 
        To tinge, on siren shores, the salt sea-spry? 

        O Sorrow! 
        Why dost borrow 
        The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue?— 15 
        To give at evening pale 
        Unto the nightingale, 
        That thou mayst listen the cold dews among? 

        O Sorrow! 
        Why dost borrow 20 
        Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?— 
        A lover would not tread 
        A cowslip on the head, 
        Though he should dance from eve till peep of day— 
        Nor any drooping flower 25 
        Held sacred for thy bower, 
        Wherever he may sport himself and play. 

        To Sorrow 
        I bade good morrow, 
        And thought to leave her far away behind; 30 
        But cheerly, cheerly, 
        She loves me dearly; 
        She is so constant to me, and so kind: 
        I would deceive her 
        And so leave her, 35 
        But ah! she is so constant and so kind. 

        Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side, 
        I sat a-weeping: in the whole world wide 
        There was no one to ask me why I wept,— 
        And so I kept 40 
        Brimming the water-lily cups with tears 
        Cold as my fears. 

        Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side, 
        I sat a-weeping: what enamour'd bride, 
        Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds, 45 
        But hides and shrouds 
        Beneath dark palm-trees by a river side? 

        And as I sat, over the light blue hills 
        There came a noise of revellers: the rills 
        Into the wide stream came of purple hue— 50 
        'Twas Bacchus and his crew! 
        The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrills 
        From kissing cymbals made a merry din— 
        'Twas Bacchus and his kin! 
        Like to a moving vintage down they came, 55 
        Crown'd with green leaves, and faces all on flame; 
        All madly dancing through the pleasant valley, 
        To scare thee, Melancholy! 
        O then, O then, thou wast a simple name! 
        And I forgot thee, as the berried holly 60 
        By shepherds is forgotten, when in June 
        Tall chestnuts keep away the sun and moon:— 
        I rush'd into the folly! 

        Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood, 
        Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood, 65 
        With sidelong laughing; 
        And little rills of crimson wine imbrued 
        His plump white arms and shoulders, enough white 
        For Venus' pearly bite; 
        And near him rode Silenus on his ass, 70 
        Pelted with flowers as he on did pass 
        Tipsily quaffing. 

        'Whence came ye, merry Damsels! whence came ye, 
        So many, and so many, and such glee? 
        Why have ye left your bowers desolate, 75 
        Your lutes, and gentler fate?'— 
        'We follow Bacchus! Bacchus on the wing, 
        A-conquering! 
        Bacchus, young Bacchus! good or ill betide, 
        We dance before him thorough kingdoms wide:— 80 
        Come hither, lady fair, and joinèd be 
        To our wild minstrelsy!' 

        'Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs! whence came ye, 
        So many, and so many, and such glee? 
        Why have ye left your forest haunts, why left 85 
        Your nuts in oak-tree cleft?'— 
        'For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree; 
        For wine we left our heath, and yellow brooms, 
        And cold mushrooms; 
        For wine we follow Bacchus through the earth; 90 
        Great god of breathless cups and chirping mirth! 
        Come hither, lady fair, and joinèd be 
        To our mad minstrelsy!' 

        Over wide streams and mountains great we went, 
        And, save when Bacchus kept his ivy tent, 95 
        Onward the tiger and the leopard pants, 
        With Asian elephants: 
        Onward these myriads—with song and dance, 
        With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians' prance, 
        Web-footed alligators, crocodiles, 100 
        Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files, 
        Plump infant laughers mimicking the coil 
        Of seamen, and stout galley-rowers' toil: 
        With toying oars and silken sails they glide, 
        Nor care for wind and tide. 105 

        Mounted on panthers' furs and lions' manes, 
        From rear to van they scour about the plains; 
        A three days' journey in a moment done; 
        And always, at the rising of the sun, 
        About the wilds they hunt with spear and horn, 110 
        On spleenful unicorn. 

        I saw Osirian Egypt kneel adown 
        Before the vine-wreath crown! 
        I saw parch'd Abyssinia rouse and sing 
        To the silver cymbals' ring! 115 
        I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierce 
        Old Tartary the fierce! 
        The kings of Ind their jewel-sceptres vail, 
        And from their treasures scatter pearlèd hail; 
        Great Brahma from his mystic heaven groans, 120 
        And all his priesthood moans, 
        Before young Bacchus' eye-wink turning pale. 
        Into these regions came I, following him, 
        Sick-hearted, weary—so I took a whim 
        To stray away into these forests drear, 125 
        Alone, without a peer: 
        And I have told thee all thou mayest hear. 

        Young Stranger! 
        I've been a ranger 
        In search of pleasure throughout every clime; 130 
        Alas! 'tis not for me! 
        Bewitch'd I sure must be, 
        To lose in grieving all my maiden prime. 

        Come then, Sorrow, 
        Sweetest Sorrow! 135 
        Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast: 
        I thought to leave thee, 
        And deceive thee, 
        But now of all the world I love thee best. 

        There is not one, 140 
        No, no, not one 
        But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid; 
        Thou art her mother, 
        And her brother, 
        Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade. 145 


        Ode to a Nightingale


        MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 
        My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 
        Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 
        One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 
        'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 5 
        But being too happy in thine happiness, 
        That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees, 
        In some melodious plot 
        Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
        Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 10 

        O for a draught of vintage! that hath been 
        Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvèd earth, 
        Tasting of Flora and the country-green, 
        Dance, and Proven?al song, and sunburnt mirth! 
        O for a beaker full of the warm South! 15 
        Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
        With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
        And purple-stainèd mouth; 
        That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 
        And with thee fade away into the forest dim: 20 

        Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 
        What thou among the leaves hast never known, 
        The weariness, the fever, and the fret 
        Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; 
        Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, 25 
        Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; 
        Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
        And leaden-eyed despairs; 
        Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 
        Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 30 

        Away! away! for I will fly to thee, 
        Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 
        But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 
        Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: 
        Already with thee! tender is the night, 35 
        And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
        Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays 
        But here there is no light, 
        Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
        Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 40 

        I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 
        Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 
        But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet 
        Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
        The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; 45 
        White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; 
        Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves; 
        And mid-May's eldest child, 
        The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 
        The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 50 

        Darkling I listen; and, for many a time 
        I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
        Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, 
        To take into the air my quiet breath; 
        Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 55 
        To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
        While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
        In such an ecstasy! 
        Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— 
        To thy high requiem become a sod. 60 

        Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! 
        No hungry generations tread thee down; 
        The voice I hear this passing night was heard 
        In ancient days by emperor and clown: 
        Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 65 
        Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 
        She stood in tears amid the alien corn; 
        The same that ofttimes hath 
        Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 
        Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 70 

        Forlorn! the very word is like a bell 
        To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 
        Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
        As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
        Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 75 
        Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 
        Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep 
        In the next valley-glades: 
        Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 
        Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep? 80 


        Ode on a Grecian Urn


        THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness  
        Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time  
        Sylvan historian who canst thus express 
        A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: 
        What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 5 
        Of deities or mortals or of both  
        In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? 
        What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? 
        What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? 
        What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 10 

        Heard melodies are sweet but those unheard 
        Are sweeter; therefore ye soft pipes play on; 
        Not to the sensual ear but more endear'd  
        Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: 
        Fair youth beneath the trees thou canst not leave 15 
        Thy song nor ever can those trees be bare; 
        Bold Lover never never canst thou kiss  
        Though winning near the goal—yet do not grieve; 
        She cannot fade though thou hast not thy bliss  
        For ever wilt thou love and she be fair! 20 

        Ah happy happy boughs! that cannot shed 
        Your leaves nor ever bid the Spring adieu; 
        And happy melodist unwearièd  
        For ever piping songs for ever new; 
        More happy love! more happy happy love! 25 
        For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd  
        For ever panting and for ever young; 
        All breathing human passion far above  
        That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd  
        A burning forehead and a parching tongue. 30 

        Who are these coming to the sacrifice? 
        To what green altar O mysterious priest  
        Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies  
        And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? 
        What little town by river or sea-shore 35 
        Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel  
        Is emptied of its folk this pious morn? 
        And little town thy streets for evermore 
        Will silent be; and not a soul to tell 
        Why thou art desolate can e'er return. 40 

        O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede 
        Of marble men and maidens overwrought  
        With forest branches and the trodden weed; 
        Thou silent form! dost tease us out of thought 
        As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! 45 
        When old age shall this generation waste  
        Thou shalt remain in midst of other woe 
        Than ours a friend to man to whom thou say'st  
        'Beauty is truth truth beauty —that is all 
        Ye know on earth and all ye need to know.' 50 


        Ode to Psyche


        O GODDESS! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung 
        By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, 
        And pardon that thy secrets should be sung 
        Even into thine own soft-conchèd ear: 
        Surely I dream'd to-day, or did I see 5 
        The wingèd Psyche with awaken'd eyes? 
        I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, 
        And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, 
        Saw two fair creatures, couchèd side by side 
        In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof 10 
        Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran 
        A brooklet, scarce espied: 
        'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed, 
        Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian 
        They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass; 15 
        Their arms embracèd, and their pinions too; 
        Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu, 
        As if disjoinèd by soft-handed slumber, 
        And ready still past kisses to outnumber 
        At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: 20 
        The wingèd boy I knew; 
        But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove? 
        His Psyche true! 

        O latest-born and loveliest vision far 
        Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy! 25 
        Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star, 
        Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; 
        Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, 
        Nor altar heap'd with flowers; 
        Nor Virgin-choir to make delicious moan 30 
        Upon the midnight hours; 
        No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet 
        From chain-swung censer teeming; 
        No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat 
        Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. 35 

        O brightest! though too late for antique vows, 
        Too, too late for the fond believing lyre, 
        When holy were the haunted forest boughs, 
        Holy the air, the water, and the fire; 
        Yet even in these days so far retired 40 
        From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, 
        Fluttering among the faint Olympians, 
        I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. 
        So let me be thy choir, and make a moan 
        Upon the midnight hours; 45 
        Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet 
        From swingèd censer teeming: 
        Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat 
        Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. 

        Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane 50 
        In some untrodden region of my mind, 
        Where branchèd thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, 
        Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: 
        Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees 
        Fledge the wild-ridgèd mountains steep by steep; 55 
        And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, 
        The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep; 
        And in the midst of this wide quietness 
        A rosy sanctuary will I dress 
        With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain, 60 
        With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, 
        With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, 
        Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same; 
        And there shall be for thee all soft delight 
        That shadowy thought can win, 65 
        A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, 
        To let the warm Love in! 


        To Autumn


        SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness! 
        Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; 
        Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
        With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; 
        To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees 5 
        And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; 
        To swell the gourd and plump the hazel shells 
        With a sweet kernel; to set budding more  
        And still more later flowers for the bees  
        Until they think warm days will never cease 10 
        For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. 

        Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? 
        Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
        Thee sitting careless on a granary floor  
        Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 15 
        Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep  
        Drowsed with the fume of poppies while thy hook 
        Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers; 
        And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 
        Steady thy laden head across a brook; 20 
        Or by a cider-press with patient look  
        Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. 

        Where are the songs of Spring? Ay where are they? 
        Think not of them thou hast thy music too — 
        While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day 25 
        And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; 
        Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 
        Among the river sallows borne aloft 
        Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; 
        And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 30 
        Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft 
        The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft; 
        And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 


        Ode on Melancholy


        NO no! go not to Lethe neither twist 
        Wolf's-bane tight-rooted for its poisonous wine; 
        Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kist 
        By nightshade ruby grape of Proserpine; 
        Make not your rosary of yew-berries 5 
        Nor let the beetle nor the death-moth be 
        Your mournful Psyche nor the downy owl 
        A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; 
        For shade to shade will come too drowsily  
        And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. 10 

        But when the melancholy fit shall fall 
        Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud  
        That fosters the droop-headed flowers all  
        And hides the green hill in an April shroud; 
        Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose 15 
        Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave  
        Or on the wealth of globèd peonies; 
        Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows  
        Emprison her soft hand and let her rave  
        And feed deep deep upon her peerless eyes. 20 

        She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die; 
        And Joy whose hand is ever at his lips 
        Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh  
        Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: 
        Ay in the very temple of Delight 25 
        Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine  
        Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue 
        Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; 
        His soul shall taste the sadness of her might  
        And be among her cloudy trophies hung. 30 


        Fragment of an Ode to Maia 
        (Written on May-Day 1818)


        MOTHER of Hermes! and still youthful Maia! 
        May I sing to thee 
        As thou wast hymnèd on the shores of Bai?? 
        Or may I woo thee 
        In earlier Sicilian? or thy smiles 5 
        Seek as they once were sought in Grecian isles  
        By bards who died content on pleasant sward  
        Leaving great verse unto a little clan? 
        O give me their old vigour! and unheard 
        Save of the quiet primrose and the span 10 
        Of heaven and few ears  
        Rounded by thee my song should die away 
        Content as theirs  
        Rich in the simple worship of a day. 


        Bards of Passion and of Mirth 
        Written on the Blank Page before Beaumont and Fletcher's 
        Tragi-Comedy 'The Fair Maid of the Inn'


        BARDS of Passion and of Mirth  
        Ye have left your souls on earth! 
        Have ye souls in heaven too  
        Doubled-lived in regions new? 
        Yes and those of heaven commune 5 
        With the spheres of sun and moon; 
        With the noise of fountains wondrous  
        And the parle of voices thund'rous; 
        With the whisper of heaven's trees 
        And one another in soft ease 10 
        Seated on Elysian lawns 
        Browsed by none but Dian's fawns; 
        Underneath large blue-bells tented  
        Where the daisies are rose-scented  
        And the rose herself has got 15 
        Perfume which on earth is not; 
        Where the nightingale doth sing 
        Not a senseless trancèd thing  
        But divine melodious truth; 
        Philosophic numbers smooth; 20 
        Tales and golden histories 
        Of heaven and its mysteries. 

        Thus ye live on high and then 
        On the earth ye live again; 
        And the souls ye left behind you 25 
        Teach us here the way to find you  
        Where your other souls are joying  
        Never slumber'd never cloying. 
        Here your earth-born souls still speak 
        To mortals of their little week; 30 
        Of their sorrows and delights; 
        Of their passions and their spites; 
        Of their glory and their shame; 
        What doth strengthen and what maim. 
        Thus ye teach us every day 35 
        Wisdom though fled far away. 

        Bards of Passion and of Mirth  
        Ye have left your souls on earth! 
        Ye have souls in heaven too  
        Double-lived in regions new! 40 


        Fancy


        EVER let the Fancy roam, 
        Pleasure never is at home: 
        At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, 
        Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; 
        Then let wingèd Fancy wander 5 
        Through the thought still spread beyond her: 
        Open wide the mind's cage-door, 
        She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. 
        O sweet Fancy! let her loose; 
        Summer's joys are spoilt by use, 10 
        And the enjoying of the Spring 
        Fades as does its blossoming; 
        Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too, 
        Blushing through the mist and dew, 
        Cloys with tasting: What do then? 15 
        Sit thee by the ingle, when 
        The sear faggot blazes bright, 
        Spirit of a winter's night; 
        When the soundless earth is muffled, 
        And the cakèd snow is shuffled 20 
        From the ploughboy's heavy shoon; 
        When the Night doth meet the Noon 
        In a dark conspiracy 
        To banish Even from her sky. 
        Sit thee there, and send abroad, 25 
        With a mind self-overawed, 
        Fancy, high-commission'd:—send her! 
        She has vassals to attend her: 
        She will bring, in spite of frost, 
        Beauties that the earth hath lost; 30 
        She will bring thee, all together, 
        All delights of summer weather; 
        All the buds and bells of May, 
        From dewy sward or thorny spray; 
        All the heapèd Autumn's wealth, 35 
        With a still, mysterious stealth: 
        She will mix these pleasures up 
        Like three fit wines in a cup, 
        And thou shalt quaff it:—thou shalt hear 
        Distant harvest-carols clear; 40 
        Rustle of the reapèd corn; 
        Sweet birds antheming the morn: 
        And, in the same moment—hark! 
        'Tis the early April lark, 
        Or the rooks, with busy caw, 45 
        Foraging for sticks and straw. 
        Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 
        The daisy and the marigold; 
        White-plumed lilies, and the first 
        Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; 50 
        Shaded hyacinth, alway 
        Sapphire queen of the mid-May; 
        And every leaf, and every flower 
        Pearlèd with the self-same shower. 
        Thou shalt see the fieldmouse peep 55 
        Meagre from its cellèd sleep; 
        And the snake all winter-thin 
        Cast on sunny bank its skin; 
        Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see 
        Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, 60 
        When the hen-bird's wing doth rest 
        Quiet on her mossy nest; 
        Then the hurry and alarm 
        When the beehive casts its swarm; 
        Acorns ripe down-pattering 65 
        While the autumn breezes sing. 

        O sweet Fancy! let her loose; 
        Every thing is spoilt by use: 
        Where 's the cheek that doth not fade, 
        Too much gazed at? Where 's the maid 70 
        Whose lip mature is ever new? 
        Where 's the eye, however blue, 
        Doth not weary? Where 's the face 
        One would meet in every place? 
        Where 's the voice, however soft, 75 
        One would hear so very oft? 
        At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 
        Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. 
        Let, then, wingèd Fancy find 
        Thee a mistress to thy mind: 80 
        Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter, 
        Ere the God of Torment taught her 
        How to frown and how to chide; 
        With a waist and with a side 
        White as Hebe's, when her zone 85 
        Slipt its golden clasp, and down 
        Fell her kirtle to her feet, 
        While she held the goblet sweet, 
        And Jove grew languid.—Break the mesh 
        Of the Fancy's silken leash; 90 
        Quickly break her prison-string, 
        And such joys as these she'll bring.— 
        Let the wingèd Fancy roam, 
        Pleasure never is at home. 


        Stanzas


        IN a drear-nighted December  
        Too happy happy tree  
        Thy branches ne'er remember 
        Their green felicity: 
        The north cannot undo them 5 
        With a sleety whistle through them; 
        Nor frozen thawings glue them 
        From budding at the prime. 

        In a drear-nighted December  
        Too happy happy brook 10 
        Thy bubblings ne'er remember 
        Apollo's summer look; 
        But with a sweet forgetting  
        They stay their crystal fretting  
        Never never petting 15 
        About the frozen time. 

        Ah! would 'twere so with many 
        A gentle girl and boy! 
        But were there ever any 
        Writhed not at passèd joy? 20 
        To know the change and feel it  
        When there is none to heal it  
        Nor numbèd sense to steal it  
        Was never said in rhyme. 


        La Belle Dame sans Merci


        'O WHAT can ail thee knight-at-arms  
        Alone and palely loitering? 
        The sedge is wither'd from the lake  
        And no birds sing. 

        'O what can ail thee knight-at-arms 5 
        So haggard and so woe-begone? 
        The squirrel's granary is full  
        And the harvest 's done. 

        'I see a lily on thy brow 
        With anguish moist and fever dew; 10 
        And on thy cheeks a fading rose 
        Fast withereth too.' 

        'I met a lady in the meads  
        Full beautiful—a faery's child  
        Her hair was long her foot was light 15 
        And her eyes were wild. 

        'I made a garland for her head  
        And bracelets too and fragrant zone; 
        She look'd at me as she did love  
        And made sweet moan. 20 

        'I set her on my pacing steed 
        And nothing else saw all day long  
        For sideways would she lean and sing 
        A faery's song. 

        'She found me roots of relish sweet 25 
        And honey wild and manna dew  
        And sure in language strange she said  
        I love thee true!  

        'She took me to her elfin grot  
        And there she wept and sigh'd fill sore; 30 
        And there I shut her wild wild eyes 
        With kisses four. 

        'And there she lullèd me asleep  
        And there I dream'd—Ah! woe betide! 
        The latest dream I ever dream'd 35 
        On the cold hill's side. 

        'I saw pale kings and princes too  
        Pale warriors death-pale were they all; 
        They cried—"La belle Dame sans Merci 
        Hath thee in thrall!" 40 

        'I saw their starved lips in the gloam 
        With horrid warning gapèd wide  
        And I awoke and found me here  
        On the cold hill's side. 

        'And this is why I sojourn here 45 
        Alone and palely loitering  
        Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake  
        And no birds sing.' 


        On first looking into Chapman's Homer


        MUCH have I travell'd in the realms of gold  
        And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; 
        Round many western islands have I been 
        Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
        Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 5 
        That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne: 
        Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
        Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: 
        Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 
        When a new planet swims into his ken; 10 
        Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes 
        He stared at the Pacific—and all his men 
        Look'd at each other with a wild surmise— 
        Silent upon a peak in Darien. 


        When I have Fears that I may cease to be


        WHEN I have fears that I may cease to be 
        Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain  
        Before high pil&grave;d books in charact'ry  
        Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain; 
        When I behold upon the night's starr'd face 5 
        Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance  
        And feel that I may never live to trace 
        Their shadows with the magic hand of chance; 
        And when I feel fair creature of an hour! 
        That I shall never look upon thee more 10 
        Never have relish in the faery power 
        Of unreflecting love;—then on the shore 
        Of the wide world I stand alone and think  
        Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. 


        To Sleep


        O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight! 
        Shutting with careful fingers and benign 
        Our gloom-pleased eyes embower'd from the light  
        Enshaded in forgetfulness divine; 
        O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee close 5 
        In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes  
        Or wait the amen ere thy poppy throws 
        Around my bed its lulling charities; 
        Then save me or the passèd day will shine 
        Upon my pillow breeding many woes; 10 
        Save me from curious conscience that still lords 
        Its strength for darkness burrowing like a mole; 
        Turn the key deftly in the oilèd wards  
        And seal the hushèd casket of my soul. 


        Last Sonnet


        BRIGHT Star! would I were steadfast as thou art— 
        Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night  
        And watching with eternal lids apart  
        Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite  
        The moving waters at their priest-like task 5 
        Of pure ablution round earth's human shores  
        Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask 
        Of snow upon the mountains and the moors— 
        No—yet still steadfast still unchangeable  
        Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast 10 
        To feel for ever its soft fall and swell  
        Awake for ever in a sweet unrest  
        Still still to hear her tender-taken breath  
        And so live ever—or else swoon to death.


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