Alas, I must not think--by Phoebe, no! This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a star Through autumn mists, and took Peonas hand: They stept into the boat, and launchd from land. No one is so accursed by fate, No one so utterly desolate, 30 But some heart, though unknown, Responds unto his own. Ah, can I tell The enchantment that afterwards befel? Fold A rose leaf round thy finger's taperness, And soothe thy lips: hist, when the airy stress Of music's kiss impregnates the free winds, And with a sympathetic touch unbinds Eolian magic from their lucid wombs: Then old songs waken from enclouded tombs; Old ditties sigh above their father's grave; Ghosts of melodious prophecyings rave Round every spot where trod Apollo's foot; Bronze clarions awake, and faintly bruit, Where long ago a giant battle was; And, from the turf, a lullaby doth pass In every place where infant Orpheus slept. He did not stirHis eyes from the dead leaves, or one small pulseOf joy he might have felt. Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than Night-swollen mushrooms? Endymion's experience of being picked up—and then dropped—by the goddess can be compared to poetic inspiration. There was store Of newest joys upon that alp. His aged head, crowned with beechen wreath, Seem'd like a poll of ivy in the teeth Of winter hoar.
She gave her fair hands to him, and behold,Before three swiftest kisses he had told,They vanish'd far away! I'll smile no more, Peona; nor will wed Sorrow the way to death, but patiently Bear up against it: so farewel, sad sigh; And come instead demurest meditation, To occupy me wholly, and to fashion My pilgrimage for the world's dusky brink. Sometimes A scent of violets, and blossoming limes, Loiter'd around us; then of honey cells, Made delicate from all white-flower bells; And once, above the edges of our nest, An arch face peep'd,--an Oread as I guess'd. English Romantic poet John Keats was born on October 31, 1795, in London. But there are Richer entanglements, enthralments far More self-destroying, leading, by degrees, To the chief intensity: the crown of these Is made of love and friendship, and sits high Upon the forehead of humanity. Her eloquence did breathe away the curse: She led him, like some midnight spirit nurse Of happy changes in emphatic dreams, Along a path between two little streams,— Guarding his forehead, with her round elbow, From low-grown branches, and his footsteps slow From stumbling over stumps and hillocks small; Until they came to where these streamlets fall, With mingled bubblings and a gentle rush, Into a river, clear, brimful, and flush With crystal mocking of the trees and sky.
Whence that completed form of all completeness? The Morphean fount Of that fine element that visions, dreams, And fitful whims of sleep are made of, streams Into its airy channels with so subtle, So thin a breathing, not the spider's shuttle, Circled a million times within the space Of a swallow's nest-door, could delay a trace, A tinting of its quality: how light Must dreams themselves be; seeing they're more slight Than the mere nothing that engenders them! This is the giddy air, and I must spreadWide pinions to keep here; nor do I dreadOr height, or depth, or width, or any chancePrecipitous: I have beneath my glanceThose towering horses and their mournful freight. Caught A Paphian dove upon a message sent? He'll be shent, Pale unrelentor,When he shall hear the wedding lutes a playing. After them appear'd, Up-followed by a multitude that rear'd Their voices to the clouds, a fair wrought car, Easily rolling so as scarce to mar The freedom of three steeds of dapple brown: Who stood therein did seem of great renown Among the throng. Sure I will not believe thou hast such storeOf grief, to last thee to my kiss again. Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than Night-swollen mushrooms? 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.
At Oxford, he received the Newdigate Prize for his long poem Ravenna T. What wouldst thou ere we all are laid on bier? Hereat Peona, in their silver source, Shut her pure sorrow drops with glad exclaim, And took a lute, from which there pulsing came A lively prelude, fashioning the way In which her voice should wander. Be rather in the trumpet's mouth,—anon Among the winds at large—that all may hearken! Ah, shouldst thou die from my heart-treachery! At length, to break the pause, She said with trembling chance: Is this the cause? Hast thou sinn'd in aught Offensive to the heavenly powers? O that she would take my vows, And breathe them sighingly among the boughs, To sue her gentle ears for whose fair head, Daily, I pluck sweet flowerets from their bed, And weave them dyinglysend honey-whispers Round every leaf, that all those gentle lispers May sigh my love unto her pitying! No, I can trace Something more high perplexing in thy face! Whence that completed form of all completeness? Now while the silent workings of the dawn Were busiest, into that self-same lawn All suddenly, with joyful cries, there sped A troop of little children garlanded; Who gathering round the altar, seemed to pry Earnestly round as wishing to espy Some folk of holiday: nor had they waited For many moments, ere their ears were sated With a faint breath of music, which evn then Filld out its voice, and died away again. Some were athirst in soul to see again Their fellow huntsmen o'er the wide champaign In times long past; to sit with them, and talk Of all the chances in their earthly walk; Comparing, joyfully, their plenteous stores Of happiness, to when upon the moors, Benighted, close they huddled from the cold, And shar'd their famish'd scrips. Long have I said, how happy he who shrivesTo thee! And there in strife no burning thoughts to heed, Id bubble up the water through a reed; So reaching back to boy-hood: make me ships Of moulted feathers, touchwood, alder chips, With leaves stuck in them; and the Neptune be Of their petty ocean.
Aye, those fair living forms swam heavenly To tunes forgottenout of memory: Fair creatures! No more will I count over, link by link, My chain of grief: no longer strive to find A half-forgetfulness in mountain wind Blustering about my ears: aye, thou shalt see, Dearest of sisters, what my life shall be; What a calm round of hours shall make my days. His aged head, crowned with beechen wreath, Seemd like a poll of ivy in the teeth Of winter hoar. Now when his chariot last Its beams against the zodiac-lion cast, There blossomd suddenly a magic bed Of sacred , and poppies red: At which I wondered greatly, knowing well That but one night had wrought this flowery spell; And, sitting down close by, began to muse What it might mean. Matthews and John Lane, 1894 Poems Roberts Brothers, 1881 Ravenna T. The very music of the name has gone Into my being, and each pleasant scene Is growing fresh before me as the green Of our own vallies: so Now while I cannot hear the citys din; Now while the early budders are just new, And run in mazes of the youngest hue About old forests; while the willow trails Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails Bring home increase of milk. Another wish'd, mid that eternal spring, To meet his rosy child, with feathery sails, Sweeping, eye-earnestly, through almond vales: Who, suddenly, should stoop through the smooth wind, And with the balmiest leaves his temples bind; And, ever after, through those regions be His messenger, his little Mercury. Be still the unimaginable lodge For solitary thinkings; such as dodge Conception to the very bourne of heaven, Then leave the naked brain: be still the leaven, That spreading in this dull and clodded earth Gives it a touch ethereal--a new birth: Be still a symbol of immensity; A firmament reflected in a sea; An element filling the space between; An unknown--but no more: we humbly screen With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending, And giving out a shout most heaven rending, Conjure thee to receive our humble Paean, Upon thy Mount Lycean! Thou surely canst not bear a mind in pain,Come hand in hand with one so beautiful.
His youth was fully blown, Shewing like Ganymede to manhood grown; And, for those simple times, his garments were A chieftain king's: beneath his breast, half bare, Was hung a silver bugle, and between His nervy knees there lay a boar-spear keen. I may not be thy love: I am forbidden--Indeed I am--thwarted, affrighted, chidden,By things I trembled at, and gorgon wrath. So many, and so many, and such glee? He sprang from his green covert: there she lay,Sweet as a muskrose upon new-made hay;With all her limbs on tremble, and her eyesShut softly up alive. But there are Richer entanglements, enthralments far More self-destroying, leading, by degrees, To the chief intensity: the crown of these Is made of love and friendship, and sits high Upon the forehead of humanity. No hand to toy with mine? Aye, those fair living forms swam heavenly To tunes forgotten--out of memory: Fair creatures! As indicated by the title, the poem's subject is Endymion, the mythical shepherd so amazingly gorgeous that Diana, the chaste goddess of the moon, fell in love with him. Why have ye left your bowers desolate, Your lutes, and gentler fate? Although, before the crystal heavens darken, I watch and dote upon the silver lakes Picturd in western cloudiness, that takes The semblance of gold rocks and bright gold sands, Islands, and creeks, and amber-fretted strands With horses prancing oer them, palaces And towers of amethyst,would I so tease My pleasant days, because I could not mount Into those regions? Beyond the matron-temple of Latona, Which we should see but for these darkening boughs, Lies a deep hollow, from whose ragged brows Bushes and trees do lean all round athwart, And meet so nearly, that with wings outraught, And spreaded tail, a vulture could not glide Past them, but he must brush on every side.
This blessing, and curse, is only possible if he remains in a perpetual sleep. Tis the grot Of Proserpine, when Hell, obscure and hot, Doth her resign; and where her tender hands She dabbles, on the cool and sluicy sands: Or tis the cell of Echo, where she sits, And babbles thorough silence, till her wits Are gone in tender madness, and anon, Faints into sleep, with many a dying tone Of sadness. Wilde is to me our only thorough playwright. Keats spent the summer of 1818 on a walking tour in Northern England and Scotland, returning home to care for his brother, Tom, who suffered from tuberculosis. Some moulderd steps lead into this cool cell, Far as the slabbed margin of a well, Whose patient level peeps its crystal eye Right upward, through the bushes, to the sky. But, starting with that famous opening, Keats clues the reader into the fact that the poem is about a lot more than that.
Didst thou not after other climates call,And murmur about Indian streams? And there in strife no burning thoughts to heed, I'd bubble up the water through a reed; So reaching back to boy-hood: make me ships Of moulted feathers, touchwood, alder chips, With leaves stuck in them; and the Neptune be Of their petty ocean. Moreover, through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul; And shaping visions all about my sight Of colours, wings, and bursts of spangly light; The which became more strange, and strange, and dim, And then were gulphd in a tumultuous swim: And then I fell asleep. Honey from out the gnarled hive I'll bring,And apples, wan with sweetness, gather thee,--Cresses that grow where no man may them see,And sorrel untorn by the dew-claw'd stag:Pipes will I fashion of the syrinx flag,That thou mayst always know whither I roam,When it shall please thee in our quiet homeTo listen and think of love. Aye, those fair living forms swam heavenly To tunes forgotten—out of memory: Fair creatures! Our friends will all be there from nigh and far. Can I want Aught else, aught nearer heaven, than such tears? Why pierce high-fronted honour to the quick For nothing but a dream? Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing A flowery band to bind us to the earth, Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, In the first stanza of this piece the speaker is introducing the aspects of life and beauty that he is going to be discussing in depth in the following stanzas and books. Full in the middle of this pleasantness There stood a marble altar, with a tress Of flowers budded newly; and the dew Had taken fairy phantasies to strew Daisies upon the sacred sward last eve, And so the dawned light in pomp receive. .
Surely some influence rare Went, spiritual, through the damsels hand; For still, with Delphic emphasis, she spannd The quick invisible strings, even though she saw Endymions spirit melt away and thaw Before the deep intoxication. Methought I lay Watching the zenith, where the milky way Among the stars in virgin splendour pours; And travelling my eye, until the doors Of heaven appear'd to open for my flight, I became loth and fearful to alight From such high soaring by a downward glance: So kept me stedfast in that airy trance, Spreading imaginary pinions wide. Thus all out-told Their fond imaginations,—saving him Whose eyelids curtain'd up their jewels dim, Endymion: yet hourly had he striven To hide the cankering venom, that had riven His fainting recollections. Do the brooksUtter a gorgon voice? Some of Keats's friends and admirers, like the poet , believed that the stress of this hostile reaction had a bad effect on Keats's mind, and partly caused his early death from at the age of 25. Thy deathful bow against some deer-herd bent, Sacred to Dian? So fond, so beauteous was his bed-fellow,He could not help but kiss her: then he grewAwhile forgetful of all beauty saveYoung Phoebe's, golden hair'd; and so 'gan craveForgiveness: yet he turn'd once more to lookAt the sweet sleeper,--all his soul was shook,--She press'd his hand in slumber; so once moreHe could not help but kiss her and adore.
There is a paly flame of hope that plays Where'er I look: but yet, I'll say 'tis naught-- And here I bid it die. He was said to rule at Olympia and is best known for the love he bares Selene, the moon. While nursing his brother, Keats met and fell in love with a woman named Fanny Brawne. There anguish does not sting; nor pleasure pall:Woe-hurricanes beat ever at the gate,Yet all is still within and desolate. He determines to search for her on hearing a disembodied whisper which encourages him in the deepest forest. With sanest lips I vow me to the numberOf Dian's sisterhood; and, kind lady,With thy good help, this very night shall seeMy future days to her fane consecrate.