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O Love! who bewailest
Now, in humbler, happier lot,
35 The frailty of all things here,
This is all remembered not; Why choose you the frailest
And now, alas! the poor sprite is For your cradle, your • home, and your Imprisoned, for some fault of his, bier?
In a body like a grave;-
you he only dares to crave, Its passions will rock thee
Bright reason will mock thee, Like the sun from a wintry sky.
The artist who this idol wrought, From thy nest every rafter
To echo all harmonious thought, Will rot, and thine eagle home
Felled a tree, while on the steep 45 Leave thee naked to laughter,
The woods were in their winter sleep, When leaves fall and cold winds come. Rocked in that repose divine
On the wind-swept Apennine;
And some of Spring approaching fast, 50 WITH A GUITAR, TO JANE And some of April buds and showers,
And some of songs in July bowers, Ariel to Miranda:Take
And all of love; and so this tree, This slave of Music, for the sake
Oh, that such our death
be! Of him who is the slave of thee,
Died in sleep, and felt no pain,
55 And teach it all the harmony
To live in happier form again: In which thou canst, and only thou,
From which, beneath Heaven's fairest Make the delighted spirit glow,
star, Till joy denies itself again,
The artist wrought this loved Guitar, And, too intense, is turned to pain; And taught it justly to reply, For by permission and command
To all who question skilfully,
60 Of thine own Prince Ferdinand,
In language gentle as thine own; Poor Ariel sends this silent token
Whispering in enamored tone Of more than ever can be spoken;
Sweet oracles of woods and dells, Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who,
And summer winds in sylvan cells; From life to life, must still pursue
For it had learned all harmonies Your happiness;—for thus alone
Of the plains and of the skies, Can Ariel ever find his own.
Of the forests and the mountains, From Prospero's enchanted cell,
And the many-voicèd fountains; As the mighty verses tell,
The clearest echoes of the hills, To the throne of Naples, he
The softest notes of falling rills,
70 Lit you o'er the trackless sea,
The melodies of birds and bees, Flitting on, your prow before,
The murmuring of summer seas, Like a living meteor.
And pattering rain, and breathing dew, When you die, the silent Moon,
And airs of evening; and it knew In her interlunar swoon,
That seldom-heard mysterious sound, 75 Is not sadder in her cell
25 Which, driven on its diurnal round, Than deserted Ariel.
As it floats through boundless day, When you live again on earth,
Our world enkindles on its way, Like an unseen star of birth,
All this it knows, but will not tell Ariel guides you o'er the sea
To those who cannot question well 80 Of life from your nativity.
The spirit that inhabits it; Many changes have been run,
It talks according to the wit Since Ferdinand and you begun
Of its companions; and no more Your course of love, and Ariel still
Is heard than has been felt before, Has tracked your steps, and served your By those who tempt it to betray will;
These secrets of an elder day:
But sweetly as its answers will Why were ye not awake? But ye were Flatter hands of perfect skill,
dead It keeps its highest, holiest tone To things ye knew not of,—were closely For our beloved Jane alone. 90
wed To musty laws lined out with wretched
And compass vile: so that ye taught a JOHN KEATS (1796-1821)
35 Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit, From SLEEP AND POETRY Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit,
Their verses tallied. Easy was the task: Is there so small a range
A thousand handicraftsmen wore the In the present strength of manhood, that mask the high Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race!
40 Imagination cannot freely fly
That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to As she was wont of old? prepare her steeds,
his face, Paw up against the light, and do strange And did not know it,-no, they went deeds
about, Upon the clouds? Has she not shown us Holding a poor, decrepit standard out, all?
Marked with most flimsy mottoes, and in From the clear space of ether, to the small large Breath of new buds unfolding? From The name of one Boileau!
the meaning Of Jove's large eyebrow, to the tender greening
9 Of April meadows? Here her altar shone, From ENDYMION, BOOK I E'en in this isle; and who could paragon The fervid choir that lifted up a noise A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
a Of harmony, to where it aye will poise Its loveliness increases; it will never Its mighty self of convoluting sound, Pass into nothingness; but still will keep Huge as a planet, and like that roll round, A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Eternally around a dizzy void?
16 Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet Ay, in those days the muses were nigh breathing
Therefore, on every morrow, With honors; nor had any other care
wreathing Than to sing out and soothe their wavy A flowery band to bind us to the earth, hair.
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, Nurtured by foppery and barbarism, Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened Made great Apollo blush for this his land. ways Men were thought wise who could not Made for our searching: yes, in spite of understand
all, His glories; with a puling infant's force Some shape of beauty moves away the pall They swayed about upon a rocking-horse, From our dark spirits. Such the sun,
the And thought it Pegasus. Ah, dismal- moon, souled!
26 Trees old and young, sprouting a shady The winds of heaven blew, the ocean boon rolled
For simple sheep: and such are daffodils 15 Its gathering waves-ye felt it not. The
With the green world they live in; and blue
clear rills Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew That for themselves a cooling covert make Of summer nights collected still to make 30 'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest The morning precious: beauty was awake! brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI
blooms: And such too is the grandeur of the dooms O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, We have imagined for the mighty dead; 21 Alone and palely loitering? All lovely tales that we have heard or The sedge has withered from the lake, read:
And no birds sing.
Nor do we merely feel these essences 25 So haggard and so woe-begone?
I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew; Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast, 31
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
"I met a lady in the meads, Will trace the story of Endymion.
Full beautiful-a faery's child;
35 The very music of the name has gone
Her hair was long, her foot was light, 15 Into my being, and each pleasant scene
And her eyes were wild.
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;' Now while the early budders are just new,
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
For sideways would she lean, and sing Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly
A faery's song. steer My little boat, for many quiet hours, "She found me roots of relish sweet,
25 With streams that deepen freshly into And honey wild, and manna-dew, bowers.
And sure in language strange she said Many and many a verse I hope to write, 'I love thee true.' Before the daisies, vermeil rimmed and white,
50 “She took me to her elfin grot, Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees And there she wept, and sighed full sore,30 Hum about globes of clover and sweet And there I shut her wild, wild eyes, peas,
With kisses four. I must be near the middle of my story. O may no wintry season, bare and hoary, | “And there she lulled me asleep, See it half finished: but let Autumn bold, 55 And there I dreamed-ah! woe betide!With universal tinge of sober gold,
The latest dream I ever dreamed
35 Be all about me when I make an end.
On the cold hill's side.
“I saw pale kings and princes too, There let its trumpet blow, and quickly
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all, dress
Who cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci My uncertain path with green, that I
Hath thee in thrall!' may speed Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.
“I saw their starved lips in the gloam, Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey With horrid warning gapèd wide;
25 And I awoke, and found me here
Where youth grows pale, and spectreOn the cold hill's side.
thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of “And this is why I sojourn here, 45
sorrow Alone and palely loitering,
And leaden-eyed despairs, Though the sedge is withered from the lake, Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous And no birds sing.”
eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond tomorrow.
30 ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE
Away! away! for I will fly to thee, My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, pains
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, My sense, as though of hemlock I had Though the dull brain perplexes and drunk,
retards: Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains Already with thee! tender is the night, 35 One minute past, and Lethe-wards had And haply the Queen-Moon is on her sunk:
throne, 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 5 Clustered around by all her starry But being too happy in thine happi
* But here there is no light, That thou, light-winged Dryad of the Save what from heaven is with the trees,
breezes blown In some melodious plot
Through verdurous glooms and windOf beechen green, and shadows number- ing mossy ways.
less, Singest of summer in full-throated I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the
boughs, O for a draught of vintage! that hath been But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each Cooled a long age in the deep-delvèd sweet earth,
Wherewith the seasonable month enTasting of Flora and the country green,
dows Dance, and Provençal song, and sun- The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree burnt mirth!
45 O for a beaker full of the warm South, 15 White hawthorn, and the pastoral Full of the true, the blushful Hippo- eglantine; crene,
Fast fading violets covered up in With beaded bubbles winking at the
And mid-May's eldest child, And purple-stainèd mouth; The coming musk-rose, full of dewy That I might drink, and leave the world
The murmurous haunt of flies on And with thee fade away into the
50 forest dim:
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget I have been half in love with easeful What thou among the leaves has never Death, known,
Called him soft names in many a musèd The weariness, the fever, and the fret
rhyme, Here, where men sit and hear each other To take into the air my quiet breath; groan;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 55
In such an ecstasy!
Thou wast not born for death, immortal
65 Through the sad heart of Ruth, when,
sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on
the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Heard melodies are sweet, but those un
heard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes,
play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
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, Forever wilt thou love, and she be
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Forever piping songs forever new;
25 Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,
Forever panting, and forever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and
cloyed, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice? ODE ON A GRECIAN URN
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, Thou still unravished bride of quietness, And all her silken flanks with garlands Thou foster-child of silence and slow
What little town by river or sea shore, 35 Sylvan historian, who canst thus express Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, A flowery tale more sweetly than our Is emptied of this folk, this pious rhyme:
morn? What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy And, little town, thy streets for evermore shape
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Of deities or mortals, or of both,
Why thou art desolate, can e'er reIn Tempe or the dales of Arcady?