The face of Poesy: from off her throne She overlook'd things that I scarce could tell. The very sense of where I was might well Keep Sleep aloof: but more than that there came Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold Some tale of love and arms in time of old. But there are times, when those that love the bay, 20 Fly from all sorrowing far, far away; Thought after thought to nourish up the light Written according to George Keats at Margate, August, 1816, and included in the 1817 volume. FULL many a dreary hour have I past, No spherey strains by me could e'er be caught From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays; Or, on the wavy grass outstretch'd supinely, Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely: That I should never hear Apollo's song, Though feathery clouds were floating all along ΙΟ The purple west, and, two bright streaks between, The golden lyre itself were dimly seen: That the still murmur of the honey bee Would never teach a rural song to me: That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slanting Would never make a lay of mine enchanting, It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it, (For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it,) That when a Poet is in such a trance, In air he sees white coursers paw and prance, Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel, Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel; And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call, Is the swift opening of their wide portal, 30 When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear, Whose tones reach nought on earth but Poet's ear. When these enchanted portals open wide, And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide, The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls, Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore. Should be upon an evening ramble fare With forehead to the soothing breezes bare, Would he naught see but the dark, silent blue, Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red: For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sigh ing, 89 Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying: With all its diamonds trembling through Between her breasts, that never yet felt and through? trouble, The first in the group of sonnets in the 1817 volume. A transcript by George Keats bears the date 'Margate, August, 1816.' MANY the wonders I this day have seen: Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoy- Who from the feathery gold of evening ment, Stretch'd on the grass at my best lov'd em His breast is dancing on the restless sea. 140 Why westward turn? 'Twas but to say adieu ! lean; The ocean with its vastness, its blue green, Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears, Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears Must think on what will be, and what has been. E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write, Cynthia is from her silken curtains peep ing So scantly, that it seems her bridal night, ing. But what, without the social thought of thee, Would be the wonders of the sky and sea? ΤΟ There is no clue to the identity of the person addressed, and no date is affixed. It was published in the 1817 volume, and there follows the one addressed to his brother George. HAD I a man's fair form, then might my sighs Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so Would passion arm me for the enterprise: "T was but to kiss my hand, dear George, Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's This poem was published in the 1817 volume where it immediately precedes Calidore. Leigh Hunt, when reviewing the volume on its appearance, speaks of the two poems as connected, and in Tom Keats's copybook they are written continuously. The same copy contains a memorandum marked by Leigh Hunt - 1816.' Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry; For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye. Not like the formal crest of latter days: But bending in a thousand graceful ways; So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand, Or e'en the touch of Archimago's wand, Could charm them into such an attitude. We must think rather, that in playful mood, Some mountain breeze had turned its chief delight, 10 To show this wonder of its gentle might. Athwart the morning air; some lady sweet, Wraps round her ample robe with happy trembling. Sometimes, when the good Knight his rest would take, It is reflected, clearly, in a lake, 20 Than the pure freshness of thy laurels Dip so refreshingly its wings, and breast The light dwelt o'er the scene so linger- And scales upon the beauty of its wings. ingly. He bares his forehead to the cool blue sky, And smiles at the far clearness all around, Until his heart is well nigh over wound, The lonely turret, shatter'd, and outworn, Stands venerably proud; too proud to mourn And turns for calmness to the pleasant Its long lost grandeur: fir-trees grow Scarce can his clear and nimble eyesight Upholding wreaths of ivy; the white dove, |