Poetry quotes

As if to glean the ruddy tears, it tried, Which fell profusely from the rose-tree stem! Haply it was the workings of its pride, In strife to throw upon the shore a gem Outvying all the buds in Flora’s diadem.

Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by?

The transient pleasures as a vision seem, And yet we think the greatest pain’s to die.

Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by? The transient pleasures as a vision seem, And yet we think the greatest pain’s to die.

How strange it is that man on earth should roam, And lead a life of woe, but not forsake His rugged path; nor dare he view alone His future doom, which is but to awake.

Byron! how sweetly sad thy melody! Attuning still the soul to tenderness, As if soft Pity, with unusual stress, Had touch’d her plaintive lute, and thou, being by, Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer’d them to die. O’ershadowing sorrow doth not make thee less Delightful:

thou thy griefs dost dress With a bright halo, shining beamily, As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil, Its sides are ting’d with a resplendent glow, Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail, And like fair veins in sable marble flow;

Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale, The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe.

O Chatterton! how very sad thy fate! Dear child of sorrow—son of misery! How soon the film of death obscur’d that eye, Whence Genius mildly flash’d, and high debate. How soon that voice, majestic and elate, Melted in dying numbers! Oh!

When by my solitary hearth I sit, And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom; When no fair dreams before my “mind’s eye” flit, And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;

Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed, And wave thy silver pinions o’er my head.

Whene’er I wander, at the fall of night, Where woven boughs shut out the moon’s bright ray, Should sad Despondency my musings fright, And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away, Peep with the moonbeams through the leafy roof, And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof.

Should Disappointment, parent of Despair, Strive for her son to seize my careless heart; When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air, Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart:

Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright, And fright him as the morning frightens night!

Whene’er the fate of those I hold most dear Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow, O bright-eyed Hope, my morbid fancy cheer; Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow:

Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters; Enough their simple loveliness for me, Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging: Yet do I often warmly burn to see Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing, And float with them about the summer waters.

How many bards gild the lapses of time!

A few of them have ever been the food Of my delighted fancy,—I could brood Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime: And often, when I sit me down to rhyme, These will in throngs before my mind intrude:

’tis a pleasing chime. So the unnumber’d sounds that evening store; The songs of birds—the whisp’ring of the leaves— The voice of waters—the great bell that heaves With solemn sound,—and thousand others more, That distance of recognizance bereaves, Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar.

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 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:

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 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; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He star’d at the Pacific⁠—and all his men Look’d at each other with a wild surmise⁠— Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song; Nor can remembrance, Mathew!

where to pry, aloof Atween the pillars of the sylvan roof, Would be to find where violet beds were nestling, And where the bee with cowslip bells was wrestling.

There must be too a ruin dark and gloomy, To say “Joy not too much in all that’s bloomy.”

Yet this is vain—O Mathew, lend thy aid To find a place where I may greet the maid— Where we may soft humanity put on, And sit, and rhyme and think on Chatterton;

That thou hast never told thy travels strange, And all the wonders of the mazy range O’er pebbly crystal, and o’er golden sands; Kissing thy daily food from Naiads’ pearly hands.

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.

and it sure must be Almost the highest bliss of human-kind, When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.

To one who has been long in city pent, ’Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven,⁠—to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament.

Who is more happy, when, with hearts content, Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair And gentle tale of love and languishment?

E’en now, dear George, while this for you I write, Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping So scantly, that it seems her bridal night, And she her half-discover’d revels keeping.

But what, without the social thought of thee, Would be the wonders of the sky and sea?

Full many a dreary hour have I past, My brain bewilder’d, and my mind o’ercast With heaviness;

But not a moment can he there insure them, Nor to such downy rest can he allure them;

For down they rush as though they would be free, And drop like hours into eternity.

Just like that bird am I in loss of time, Whene’er I venture on the stream of rhyme; With shatter’d boat, oar snapt, and canvas rent, I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent;

No sooner had I stepp’d into these pleasures, Than I began to think of rhymes and measures;

The air that floated by me seem’d to say “Write! thou wilt never have a better day.”

And so I did. When many lines I’d written, Though with their grace I was not oversmitten, Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought I’d better Trust to my feelings, and write you a letter.

It cannot be that ought will work him harm.” These thoughts now come o’er me with all their might:— Again I shake your hand—friend Charles, good night.

Keen, fitful gusts are whisp’ring here and there Among the bushes half leafless, and dry; The stars look very cold about the sky, And I have many miles on foot to fare.

Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air, Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily, Or of those silver lamps that burn on high, Or of the distance from home’s pleasant lair:

The while let music wander round my ears, And as it reaches each delicious ending, Let me write down a line of glorious tone, And full of many wonders of the spheres:

For what a height my spirit is contending! ’Tis not content so soon to be alone.

Small, busy flames play through the fresh-laid coals, And their faint cracklings o’er our silence creep Like whispers of the household gods that keep A gentle empire o’er fraternal souls.

And lo!—whose steadfastness would never take A meaner sound than Raphael’s whispering. And other spirits there are standing apart Upon the forehead of the age to come; These, these will give the world another heart, And other pulses.

Hear ye not the hum Of mighty workings in the human mart? Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb.

Highmindedness, 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:

… too, that on a happy day, When some good spirit walks upon the earth, Thy name with Alfred’s, and the great of yore, Gently commingling, gives tremendous birth To a loud hymn, that sounds far, far away To where the great God lives for evermore.

The poetry of earth is never dead:

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees; a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead; That is the Grasshopper’s—he takes the lead In summer luxury,—he has never done With his delights;

The Ocean, its neighbour, Was at its old labour, When, who—who did dare To tie, like a madman, thy plant round his brow, And grin and look proudly, And blaspheme so loudly, And live for that honour, to stoop to thee now? O Delphic Apollo?

What is more gentle than a wind in summer?

What is more soothing than the pretty hummer That stays one moment in an open flower, And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower? What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowing In a green island, far from all men’s knowing?

Then the events of this wide world I’d seize Like a strong giant, and my spirit tease Till at its shoulders it should proudly see Wings to find out an immortality.

Stop and consider! life is but a day; A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way From a tree’s summit; a poor Indian’s sleep While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep Of Montmorenci.

Why so sad a moan? Life is the rose’s hope while yet unblown; The reading of an ever-changing tale; The light uplifting of a maiden’s veil; A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;

Stop and consider! life is but a day; A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way From a tree’s summit; a poor Indian’s sleep While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan?

Life is the rose’s hope while yet unblown; The reading of an ever-changing tale; The light uplifting of a maiden’s veil; A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air; A laughing school-boy, without grief or care, Riding the springy branches of an elm.

O for ten years, that I may overwhelm Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed That my own soul has to itself decreed. Then I will pass the countries that I see In long perspective, and continually Taste their pure fountains.

Life is the rose’s hope while yet unblown; The reading of an ever-changing tale; The light uplifting of a maiden’s veil; A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air; A laughing school-boy, without grief or care, Riding the springy branches of an elm.

O for ten years, that I may overwhelm Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed That my own soul has to itself decreed.

Then I will pass the countries that I see In long perspective, and continually Taste their pure fountains. First the realm I’ll pass Of Flora, and old Pan:

but I will strive Against all doubtings, and will keep alive The thought of that same chariot, and the strange Journey it went.

Is there so small a range In the present strength of manhood, that the high Imagination cannot freely fly As she was wont of old?

prepare her steeds, Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds Upon the clouds? Has she not shown us all? From the clear space of ether, to the small Breath of new buds unfolding?

These things are, doubtless; yet in truth we’ve had Strange thunders from the potency of song; Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong From majesty: but in clear truth the themes Are ugly clubs, the Poets Polyphemes Disturbing the grand sea.

A drainless shower Of light is Poesy; ’tis the supreme of power; ’Tis might half slumb’ring on its own right arm.

The very archings of her eyelids charm A thousand willing agents to obey, And still she governs with the mildest sway: But strength alone though of the Muses born Is like a fallen angel: trees uptorn, Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres Delight it;

let there nothing be More boisterous than a lover’s bended knee; Nought more ungentle than the placid look Of one who leans upon a closèd book; Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopes Between two hills. All hail, delightful hopes!

As she was wont, th’ imagination Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone, And they shall be accounted poet kings Who simply tell the most heart-easing things.

O may these joys be ripe before I die.

Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopes Between two hills. All hail, delightful hopes! As she was wont, th’ imagination Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone, And they shall be accounted poet kings Who simply tell the most heart-easing things.

O may these joys be ripe before I die.

Will not some say that I presumptuously Have spoken? that from hastening disgrace ’Twere better far to hide my foolish face? That whining boyhood should with reverence bow Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach? How!

thence too I’ve seen The end and aim of Poesy. ’Tis clear As anything most true; as that the year Is made of the four seasons—manifest As a large cross, some old cathedral’s crest. Lifted to the white clouds.

Therefore should I Be but the essence of deformity, A coward, did my very eyelids wink At speaking out what I have dared to think.

Ah! rather let me like a madman run Over some precipice; let the hot sun Melt my Dædalian wings, and drive me down Convuls’d and headlong! Stay! an inward frown Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile.

If I do fall, at least I will be laid Beneath the silence of a poplar shade; And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven; And there shall be a kind memorial graven.

But off, Despondence! miserable bane! They should not know thee, who athirst to gain A noble end, are thirsty every hour.

What though I am not wealthy in the dower Of spanning wisdom; though I do not know The shiftings of the mighty winds that blow Hither and thither all the changing thoughts Of man:

It was a poet’s house who keeps the keys Of pleasure’s temple. Round about were hung The glorious features of the bards who sung In other ages—cold and sacred busts Smiled at each other.

Happy he who trusts To clear Futurity his darling fame!

Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aim At swelling apples with a frisky leap And reaching fingers, ’mid a luscious heap Of vine leaves.

Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight: With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.

Linger awhile upon some bending planks That lean against a streamlet’s rushy banks, And watch intently Nature’s gentle doings: They will be found softer than ring-dove’s cooings.

How silent comes the water round that bend; Not the minutest whisper does it send To the o’erhanging sallows: blades of grass Slowly across the chequer’d shadows pass.

Thee must I praise above all other glories That smile us on to tell delightful stories.

For what has made the sage or poet write But the fair paradise of Nature’s light?

In the calm grandeur of a sober line, We see the waving of the mountain pine; And when a tale is beautifully staid, We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade: When it is moving on luxurious wings, The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings:

And oftentimes he feels the dewy drops Come cool and suddenly against his face, And, by the wandering melody, may trace Which way the tender-legged linnet hops.

Oh! what a power has white simplicity!

What mighty power has this gentle story! I, that do ever feel athirst for glory, Could at this moment be content to lie Meekly upon the grass, as those whose sobbings Were heard of none beside the mournful robins.

Whose else? In this who touch thy vesture’s hem? For when men star’d at what was most divine With browless idiotism—o’erwise phlegm— Thou hadst beheld the Hesperean shine Of their star in the East, and gone to worship them.

My spirit is too weak⁠—mortality Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep, And each imagin’d pinnacle and steep Of godlike hardship tells me I must die Like a sick Eagle looking at the sky.

Yet ’tis a gentle luxury to weep That I have not the cloudy winds to keep, Fresh for the opening of the morning’s eye. Such dim-conceivèd glories of the brain Bring round the heart an indescribable feud;

Often ’tis in such gentle temper found, That scarcely will the very smallest shell Be mov’d for days from where it sometime fell, When last the winds of Heaven were unbound.

O ye! who have your eyeballs vex’d and tir’d, Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea; O ye! whose ears are dinn’d with uproar rude, Or fed too much with cloying melody,— Sit ye near some old cavern’s mouth, and brood Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quired!

Knowing within myself the manner in which this Poem has been produced, it is not without a feeling of regret that I make it public.

the foundations are too sandy. It is just that this youngster should die away: a sad thought for me, if I had not some hope that while it is dwindling I may be plotting, and fitting myself for verses fit to live.

This may be speaking too presumptuously, and may deserve a punishment: but no feeling man will be forward to inflict it: he will leave me alone, with the conviction that there is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object.

This is not written with the least atom of purpose to forestall criticisms of course, but from the desire I have to conciliate men who are competent to look, and who do look with a zealous eye, to the honour of English literature.

I hope I have not in too late a day touched the beautiful mythology of Greece, and dulled its brightness: for I wish to try once more, before I bid it farewell.

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

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, Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darken’d ways Made for our searching:

so that a whispering blade Of grass, a wailful gnat, a bee bustling Down in the bluebells, or a wren light rustling Among sere leaves and twigs, might all be heard.

O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o’er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush’d and smooth!

O unconfined Restraint! imprison’d liberty! great key To golden palaces, strange minstrelsy, Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled caves, Echoing grottoes, full of tumbling waves And moonlight;

how light Must dreams themselves be; seeing they’re more slight Than the mere nothing that engenders them!

Then wherefore sully the entrusted gem Of high and noble life with thoughts so sick? Why pierce high-fronted honour to the quick For nothing but a dream?

” Hereat the youth Look’d up: a conflicting of shame and ruth Was in his plaited brow: yet his eyelids Widen’d a little, as when Zephyr bids A little breeze to creep between the fans Of careless butterflies:

nothing base, No merely slumberous phantasm, could unlace The stubborn canvas for my voyage prepared— Though now ’tis tatter’d; leaving my bark bared And sullenly drifting: yet my higher hope Is of too wide, too rainbow-large a scope, To fret at myriads of earthly wrecks.

Wherein lies happiness? In that which becks Our ready minds to fellowship divine, A fellowship with essence; till we shine, Full alchemized, and free of space.

Behold The clear religion of heaven! 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 Æolian magic from their lucid wombs:

Aye, such a breathless honey-feel of bliss Alone preserved me from the drear abyss Of death, for the fair form had gone again.

Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain Clings cruelly to us, like the gnawing sloth On the deer’s tender haunches: late, and loth, ’Tis scared away by slow returning pleasure.

How sickening, how dark the dreadful leisure Of weary days, made deeper exquisite, By a foreknowledge of unslumbrous night! Like sorrow came upon me, heavier still, Than when I wander’d from the poppy hill:

This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a star Through autumn mists, and took Peona’s hand: They stept into the boat, and launch’d from land.

O sovereign power of love! O grief! O balm!

All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm, And shadowy, through the mist of passed years: For others, good or bad, hatred and tears Have become indolent;

The woes of Troy, towers smothering o’er their blaze, Stiff-holden shields, far-piercing spears, keen blades, Struggling, and blood, and shrieks—all dimly fades Into some backward corner of the brain; Yet, in our very souls, we feel amain The close of Troïlus and Cressid sweet.

Hence, pageant history! hence, gilded cheat!

Swart planet in the universe of deeds! Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds Along the pebbled shore of memory! Many old rotten-timber’d boats there be Upon thy vaporous bosom, magnified To goodly vessels;

Yet, for him there’s refreshment even in toil: Another city doth he set about, Free from the smallest pebble-bead of doubt That he will seize on trickling honey-combs: Alas, he finds them dry; and then he foams, And onward to another city speeds.

But this is human life: the war, the deeds, The disappointment, the anxiety, Imagination’s struggles, far and nigh, All human; bearing in themselves this good, That they are still the air, the subtle food, To make us feel existence, and to show How quiet death is.

Where soil is, men grow, Whether to weeds or flowers; but for me, There is no depth to strike in: I can see Naught earthly worth my compassing; so stand Upon a misty, jutting head of land— Alone? No, no;

And long he traversed to and fro, to acquaint Himself with every mystery, and awe; Till, weary, he sat down before the maw Of a wide outlet, fathomless and dim, To wild uncertainty and shadows grim.

There, when new wonders ceased to float before, And thoughts of self came on, how crude and sore The journey homeward to habitual self!

A mad pursuing of the fog-born elf, Whose flitting lantern, through rude nettle-brier, Cheats us into a swamp, into a fire, Into the bosom of a hated thing.

’Tis the pest Of love, that fairest joys give most unrest; That things of delicate and tenderest worth Are swallow’d all, and made a seared dearth, By one consuming flame: it doth immerse And suffocate true blessings in a curse.

Half-happy, by comparison of bliss, Is miserable.

’Twas even so with this Dew-dropping melody, in the Carian’s ear; First heaven, then hell, and then forgotten clear, Vanish’d in elemental passion.

As if the minist’ring stars kept not apart, Waiting for silver-footed messages. O Moon! the oldest shades ’mong oldest trees Feel palpitations when thou lookest in: O Moon! old boughs lisp forth a holier din The while they feel thine airy fellowship.

Thou dost bless everywhere, with silver lip Kissing dead things to life.

The sleeping kine, Couch’d in thy brightness, dream of fields divine: Innumerable mountains rise, and rise, Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes; And yet thy benediction passeth not One obscure hiding-place, one little spot Where pleasure may be sent:

Ah! how all this hums, In wakeful ears, like uproar past and gone— Like thunder-clouds that spake to Babylon, And set those old Chaldeans to their tasks.—

Are then regalities all gilded masks?

No, there are throned seats unscalable But by a patient wing, a constant spell, Or by ethereal things that, unconfined, Can make a ladder of the eternal wind, And poise about in cloudy thunder-tents To watch the abysm-birth of elements.

O, not so idle: for down-glancing thence, She fathoms eddies, and runs wild about O’erwhelming water-courses; scaring out The thorny sharks from hiding-holes, and fright’ning Their savage eyes with unaccustom’d lightning. Where will the splendour be content to reach?

O love! how potent hast thou been to teach Strange journeyings!

Wherever beauty dwells, In gulf or aerie, mountains or deep dells, In light, in gloom, in star or blazing sun, Thou pointest out the way, and straight ’tis won. Amid his toil thou gavest Leander breath; Thou leddest Orpheus through the gleams of death;

scaring out The thorny sharks from hiding-holes, and fright’ning Their savage eyes with unaccustom’d lightning. Where will the splendour be content to reach? O love! how potent hast thou been to teach Strange journeyings!

Wherever beauty dwells, In gulf or aerie, mountains or deep dells, In light, in gloom, in star or blazing sun, Thou pointest out the way, and straight ’tis won.

Amid his toil thou gavest Leander breath; Thou leddest Orpheus through the gleams of death; Thou madest Pluto bear thin element; And now, O winged Chieftain! thou hast sent A moonbeam to the deep, deep water-world, To find Endymion.

he left them to their joy, And onward went upon his high employ, Showering those powerful fragments on the dead. And, as he pass’d, each lifted up its head, As doth a flower at Apollo’s touch.

Death felt it to his inwards: ’twas too much: Death fell a-weeping in his charnel-house.

The Latmian persevered along, and thus All were reanimated. There arose A noise of harmony, pulses and throes Of gladness in the air—while many, who Had died in mutual arms devout and true, Sprang to each other madly;

“

There is not one, 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.

”

Like two drops of dew Exhaled to Phœbus’ lips, away they are gone, Far from the earth away—unseen, alone, Among cool clouds and winds, but that the free, The buoyant life of song can floating be Above their heads, and follow them untired.

Muse of my native land, am I inspired?

This is the giddy air, and I must spread Wide pinions to keep here; nor do I dread Or height, or depth, or width, or any chance Precipitous: I have beneath my glance Those towering horses and their mournful freight.

the man is yet to come Who hath not journey’d in this native hell. But few have ever felt how calm and well Sleep may be had in that deep den of all. There anguish does not sting, nor pleasure pall;

Woe-hurricanes beat ever at the gate, Yet all is still within and desolate.

Beset with painful gusts, within ye hear No sound so loud as when on curtain’d bier The death-watch tick is stifled. Enter none Who strive therefor: on the sudden it is won. Just when the sufferer begins to burn, Then it is free to him;

Against his proper glory Has my own soul conspired: so my story Will I to children utter, and repent.

There never lived a mortal man, who bent His appetite beyond his natural sphere, But starved and died.

My sweetest Indian, here, Here will I kneel, for thou redeemed hast My life from too thin breathing: gone and past Are cloudy phantasms. Caverns lone, farewell! And air of visions, and the monstrous swell Of visionary seas!

Where didst thou melt to? By thee will I sit For ever: let our fate stop here—a kid I on this spot will offer: Pan will bid Us live in peace, in love and peace among His forest wildernesses.

I have clung To nothing, loved a nothing, nothing seen Or felt but a great dream!

Oh, I have been Presumptuous against love, against the sky, Against all elements, against the tie Of mortals each to each, against the blooms Of flowers, rush of rivers, and the tombs Of heroes gone! Against his proper glory Has my own soul conspired:

Night will strew On the damp grass myriads of lingering leaves, And with them shall I die; nor much it grieves To die, when summer dies on the cold sward.

Why, I have been a butterfly, a lord Of flowers, garlands, love-knots, silly posies.

Groves, meadows, melodies, and arbour-roses; My kingdom’s at its death, and just it is That I should die with it: so in all this We miscall grief, bale, sorrow, heart-break, woe, Where is there to plain of? By Titan’s foe I am but rightly served.”

Ah! would ’twere so with many A gentle girl and boy! But were there ever any Writh’d not at passèd joy?

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.

Cat! who hast pass’d thy grand climacteric, How many mice and rats hast in thy days Destroy’d?—How many tit-bits stolen?

O blush not so! O blush not so! Or I shall think you knowing; And if you smile the blushing while, Then maidenheads are going.

There’s a blush for won’t, and a blush for shan’t, And a blush for having done it: There’s a blush for thought and a blush for nought, And a blush for just begun it.

O sigh not so! O sigh not so! For it sounds of Eve’s sweet Pippin; By these loosen’d lips you have tasted the pips And fought in an amorous nipping.

O thou, whose only book has been the light Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on Night after night when Phœbus was away, To thee the Spring shall be a triple morn.

O fret not after knowledge⁠—I have none, And yet my song comes native with the warmth.

O fret not after knowledge—I have none, And yet the Evening listens. He who saddens At thought of idleness cannot be idle, And he’s awake who thinks himself asleep.

O fret not after knowledge—I have none, And yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge—I have none, And yet the Evening listens.

He who saddens At thought of idleness cannot be idle, And he’s awake who thinks himself asleep.

No! those days are gone away, And their hours are old and gray, And their minutes buried all Under the down-trodden pall Of the leaves of many years:

… a day Mine host’s sign-board flew away, Nobody knew whither, till An astrologer’s old quill To a sheepskin gave the story, Said he saw you in your glory, Underneath a new-old sign Sipping beverage divine, And pledging with contented smack The Mermaid in the Zodiac.

Souls of Poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow, Lethe’s weed and Hermes’ feather; Come to-day, and come to-morrow, I do love you both together! I love to mark sad faces in fair weather; And hear a merry laugh amid the thunder; Fair and foul I love together.

Souls of Poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow, Lethe’s weed and Hermes’ feather; Come to-day, and come to-morrow, I do love you both together!

I love to mark sad faces in fair weather; And hear a merry laugh amid the thunder; Fair and foul I love together. Meadows sweet where flames are under, And a giggle at a wonder; Visage sage at pantomime; Funeral, and steeple-chime;

Nightshade with the woodbine kissing; Serpents in red roses hissing; Cleopatra regal-dress’d With the aspic at her breast; Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad; Muses bright, and muses pale; Sombre Saturn, Momus hale;— Laugh and sigh, and laugh again;

Oh, the sweetness of the pain!

Muses bright and muses pale, Bare your faces of the veil; Let me see; and let me write Of the day, and of the night— Both together:—let me slake All my thirst for sweet heart-ache! Let my bower be of yew, Interwreath’d with myrtles new:

And for each briar-berry he might eat, A kiss should bud upon the tree of love, And pulp and ripen richer every hour, To melt away upon the traveller’s lips.

The sun, with his great eye, Sees not so much as I; And the moon, all silver-proud, Might as well be in a cloud.

And O the spring—the spring! I lead the life of a King! Couch’d in the teeming grass, I spy each pretty lass.

But Elfin Poet, ’tis impossible For an inhabitant of wintry earth To rise like Phœbus with a golden quill Fire-wing’d and make a morning in his mirth. It is impossible to escape from toil O’ the sudden and receive thy spiriting:

The flower must drink the nature of the soil Before it can put forth its blossoming:

Be with me in the summer days, and I Will for thine honour and his pleasure try.

Nurse of swart nations since the world began, Art thou so fruitful? or dost thou beguile Such men to honour thee, who, worn with toil, Rest for a space ’twixt Cairo and Decan? O may dark fancies err! They surely do;

’Tis ignorance that makes a barren waste Of all beyond itself.

Thou dost bedew Green rushes like our rivers, and dost taste The pleasant sun-rise. Green isles hast thou too, And to the sea as happily dost haste.

O that a week could be an age, and we Felt parting and warm meeting every week; Then one poor year a thousand years would be, The flush of welcome ever on the cheek:

So could we live long life in little space, So time itself would be annihilate.

So a day’s journey in oblivious haze To serve our joys would lengthen and dilate. O to arrive each Monday morn from Ind! To land each Tuesday from the rich Levant!

quiet coves His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings He furleth close; contented so to look On mists in idleness—to let fair things Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.

He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

Where be ye going, you Devon Maid? And what have ye there in the Basket? Ye tight little fairy just fresh from the dairy, Will ye give me some cream if I ask it?

Things cannot to the will Be settled, but they tease us out of thought; Or is it imagination brought Beyond its proper bound, yet still confin’d, Lost in a sort of Purgatory blind, Cannot refer to any standard law Of either earth or heaven?

It is a flaw In happiness, to see beyond our bourn.⁠— It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the Nightingale.

Dear Reynolds! I have a mysterious tale, And cannot speak it: the first page I read Upon a Lampit rock of green sea-weed Among the breakers;

And O, and O The daisies blow And the primroses are waken’d, And the violets white Sit in silver light, And the green bud’s as long as the spike end.

Then who would go Into dark Soho, And chatter with dank’d hair’d critics, When he can stay For the new-mown hay, And startle the dappled crickets?

Mother of Hermes! and still youthful Maia! May I sing to thee As thou wast hymned on the shores of Baiae? Or may I woo thee In earlier Sicilian?

… met again, before the dusk Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil, All close they met, all eves, before the dusk Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil, Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk, Unknown of any, free from whispering tale.

Ah! better had it been forever so, Than idle ears should pleasure in their woe.

Were they unhappy then?—It cannot be— Too many tears for lovers have been shed, Too many sighs give we to them in fee, Too much of pity after they are dead, Too many doleful stories do we see, Whose matter in bright gold were best …

But, for the general award of love, The little sweet doth kill much bitterness; Though Dido silent is in under-grove, And Isabella’s was a great distress, Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian clove Was not embalm’d, this truth is not the less—

Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers, Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.

With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt, Enriched from ancestral merchandise, And for them many a weary hand did swelt In torched mines and noisy factories, And many once proud-quiver’d loins did melt In blood from stinging whip;—with hollow eyes Many all day in …

For them his ears gush’d blood; for them in death The seal on the cold ice with piteous bark Lay full of darts; for them alone did seethe A thousand men in troubles wide and dark:

Half-ignorant, they turn’d an easy wheel, That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and peel.

Why were they proud? Because their marble founts Gush’d with more pride than do a wretch’s tears?— Why were they proud? Because fair orange-mounts Were of more soft ascent than lazar stairs?— Why were they proud?

Because their marble founts Gush’d with more pride than do a wretch’s tears?— Why were they proud? Because fair orange-mounts Were of more soft ascent than lazar stairs?— Why were they proud? Because red-lined accounts Were richer than the songs of Grecian years?—

Why were they proud? again we ask aloud, Why in the name of Glory were they proud?

Yet were these Florentines as self-retired In hungry pride and gainful cowardice, As two close Hebrews in that land inspired, Paled in and vineyarded from beggar-spies;

They told their sister how, with sudden speed, Lorenzo had ta’en ship for foreign lands, Because of some great urgency and need In their affairs, requiring trusty hands. Poor Girl! put on thy stifling widow’s weed, And ’scape at once from Hope’s accursed bands:

To-day thou wilt not see him, nor to-morrow, And the next day will be a day of sorrow.

She weeps alone for pleasures not to be; Sorely she wept until the night came on, And then, instead of love, O misery! She brooded o’er the luxury alone:

then she took Her pocket-mirror and began to look First at herself and then at him, and then She smil’d at her own beauteous face again. Yet for all this—for all her pretty face— She took it in her head to see the place.

Women gain little from experience Either in Lovers, husbands, or expense.

The more their beauty the more fortune too— Beauty before the wide world never knew— So each fair reasons—though it oft miscarries. She thought her pretty face would please the faeries.

For who has mind to relish, Minos-wise, The Real of Beauty, free from that dead hue Sickly imagination and sick pride Cast wan upon it! Burns! with honour due I oft have honour’d thee. Great shadow, hide Thy face; I sin against thy native skies.

Old Meg she was a Gipsy, And liv’d upon the Moors: Her bed it was the brown heath turf, And her house was out of doors.

Her apples were swart blackberries, Her currants pods o’ broom; Her wine was dew of the wild white rose, Her book a churchyard tomb.

Her apples were swart blackberries, Her currants pods o’ broom; Her wine was dew of the wild white rose, Her book a churchyard tomb.

Her Brothers were the craggy hills, Her Sisters larchen trees⁠— Alone with her great family She liv’d as she did please.

No breakfast had she many a morn, No dinner many a noon, And ’stead of supper she would stare Full hard against the Moon.

Yet can I stamp my foot upon thy floor, Yet can I ope thy window-sash to find The meadow thou hast tramped o’er and o’er,— Yet can I think of thee till thought is blind,— Yet can I gulp a bumper to thy name,—

O smile among the shades, for this is fame!

There is a charm in footing slow across a silent plain, Where patriot battle has been fought, where glory had the gain; There is a pleasure on the heath where Druids old have been, Where mantles gray have rustled by and swept the nettles green;

I look o’erhead, And there is sullen mist,—even so much Mankind can tell of heaven; mist is spread Before the earth, beneath me,—even such, Even so vague is man’s sight of himself! Here are the craggy stones beneath my feet,—

Thus much I know that, a poor witless elf, I tread on them,⁠—that all my eye doth meet Is mist and crag, not only on this height, But in the world of thought and mental might!

All gentle folks who owe a grudge To any living thing Open your ears and stay your trudge Whilst I in dudgeon sing.

Child, I see thee! Child, I’ve found thee Midst of the quiet all around thee! Child, I see thee! Child, I spy thee! And thy mother sweet is nigh thee!

Child, I know thee! Child no more, But a Poet evermore!

See, see, the Lyre, the Lyre, In a flame of fire, Upon the little cradle’s top Flaring, flaring, flaring, Past the eyesight’s bearing. Awake it from its sleep, And see if it can keep Its eyes upon the blaze— Amaze, amaze!

Where’s the maid Whose lip mature is ever new? Wheres the eye, however blue, Does not weary? Where’s the face One would meet in every place? Where’s the voice, however soft, One would hear so very oft?

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.

Let, then, winged Fancy find Thee a mistress to thy mind: Dulcet-eyed as Ceres’ daughter Ere the God of Torment taught her How to frown and how to chide;

Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose; Everything is spoilt by use;

Where’s the cheek that doth not fade, Too much gazed at?

Where’s the maid Whose lip mature is ever new? Wheres the eye, however blue, Does not weary? Where’s the face One would meet in every place? Where’s the voice, however soft, One would hear so very oft?

Quickly break her prison-string. And such joys as these she’ll bring.—

Let the winged Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home.

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth! Have ye souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new? Yes, and those of heaven commune With the spheres of sun and moon;

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, 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!

Here, your earth-born souls still speak To mortals, of their little week; 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, 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!

Forest on forest hung about his head Like cloud on cloud.

No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer’s day Robs not one light seed from the feather’d grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.

A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more By reason of his fallen divinity Spreading a shade: the Naiad ’mid her reeds Press’d her cold finger closer to her lips.

and all the air Is emptied of thine hoary majesty. Thy thunder, conscious of the new command, Rumbles reluctant o’er our fallen house; And thy sharp lightning in unpractised hands Scorches and burns our once serene domain.

O aching time! O moments big as years!

All as ye pass swell out the monstrous truth, And press it so upon our weary griefs That unbelief has not a space to breathe. Saturn, sleep on:—O thoughtless, why did I Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude? Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes?

Or with a finger stay’d Ixion’s wheel. Her face was large as that of Memphian sphinx, Pedestal’d haply in a palace-court, When sages look’d to Egypt for their lore. But oh! how unlike marble was that face;

How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty’s self.

There was a listening fear in her regard, As if calamity had but begun; As if the vanward clouds of evil days Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear Was with its stored thunder labouring up.

O effigies of pain! O spectres busy in a cold, cold gloom! O lank-ear’d Phantoms of black-weeded pools! Why do I know ye? why have I seen ye! why Is my eternal essence thus distraught To see and to behold these horrors new?

Saturn is fallen, am I too to fall?

Am I to leave this haven of my rest, This cradle of my glory, this soft clime, This calm luxuriance of blissful light, These crystalline pavilions, and pure fanes, Of all my lucent empire? It is left Deserted, void, nor any haunt of mine.

Upon that very hour, our parentage, The Heavens and the Earth, were manifest: Then thou first-born, and we the giant-race, Found ourselves ruling new and beauteous realms. Now comes the pain of truth, to whom ’tis pain;

O folly! for to bear all naked truths, And to envisage circumstance, all calm, That is the top of sovereignty.

Mark well! As Heaven and Earth are fairer, fairer far Than Chaos and blank Darkness, though once chiefs;

farewell sad I took, And hither came, to see how dolorous fate Had wrought upon ye; and how I might best Give consolation in this woe extreme.

Receive the truth and let it be your balm.

”

“O ye, whom wrath consumes! who, passion-stung, Writhe at defeat, and nurse your agonies!

Shut up your senses, stifle up your ears, My voice is not a bellows unto ire.

Yet listen, ye who will, whilst I bring proof How ye, perforce, must be content to stoop; And in the proof much comfort will I give, If ye will take that comfort in its truth.

Yet listen, ye who will, whilst I bring proof How ye, perforce, must be content to stoop; And in the proof much comfort will I give, If ye will take that comfort in its truth.

We fall by course of Nature’s law, not force Of thunder, or of Jove.

Great Saturn, thou Has sifted well the atom-universe; But for this reason, that thou art the King, And only blind from sheer supremacy, One avenue was shaded from thine eyes, Through which I wander’d to eternal truth.

Great Saturn, thou Has sifted well the atom-universe; But for this reason, that thou art the King, And only blind from sheer supremacy, One avenue was shaded from thine eyes, Through which I wander’d to eternal truth.

And first, as thou wast not the first of powers. So art thou not the last; it cannot be; Thou art not the beginning nor the end.

From chaos and parental darkness came Light, the first fruits of that intestine broil, That sullen ferment, which for wondrous ends Was ripening in itself.

O tell me, lonely Goddess, by thy harp, That waileth every morn and eventide, Tell me why thus I rave, about these groves! Mute thou remainest—Mute! yet I can read A wondrous lesson in thy silent face:

Knowledge enormous makes a God of me.

Names, deeds, grey legends, dire events, rebellions, Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, Creations and destroyings, all at once Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, And deify me, as if some blithe wine Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, And so become immortal.”—Thus the …

The open casement press’d a new-leaved vine, Let in the budding warmth and throstle’s lay; O Shadows! ’twas a time to bid farewell! Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine.

So, ye three Ghosts, adieu! Ye cannot raise My head cool-bedded in the flowery grass; For I would not be dieted with praise, A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce!

Fade softly from my eyes and be once more In masque-like figures on the dreamy urn; Farewell! I yet have visions for the night, And for the day faint visions there is store; Vanish, ye Phantoms!

What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 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?

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 Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 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!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied, For ever piping songs for ever new: More happy love! more happy, happy love!

O Attic shade! 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!

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.

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! 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.

No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;

Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt-sand wave, Or on the wealth of globed 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.

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:

Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

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:

ever must I moan, To question Heaven and Hell and Heart in vain. Why did I laugh? I know this Being’s lease, My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads; Yet would I on this very midnight cease, And the world’s gaudy ensigns see in shreds;

Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense indeed, But Death intenser⁠—Death is Life’s high meed.

As Hermes once rook to his feathers light, When lulled Argus, baffled, swoon’d and slept So on a Delphic reed, my idle spright So play’d, so charm’d, so conquer’d, so bereft The dragon-world in all its hundred eyes;

Why, this—you’ll say, my Fanny! is not true: Put your soft hand upon your snowy side, Where the heart beats: confess—’tis nothing new—

Must not a woman be A feather on the sea, Sway’d to and fro by every wind and tide?

Of as uncertain speed As blow-ball from the mead?

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge is wither’d from the lake, And no birds sing.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel’s granary is full, And the harvest’s done.

Then save me, or the passed day will shine Upon my pillow, breeding many woes; Save me from curious conscience, that still lords Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;

Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed casket of my soul.

Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy To those who woo her with too slavish knees, But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy, And dotes the more upon a heart at ease;

A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper’d close, Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her; A very Gipsy is she, Nilus-born, Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar; Ye lovesick Bards! repay her scorn for scorn; Ye Artists lovelorn! madmen that ye are!

Make your best bow to her and bid adieu, Then, if she likes it, she will follow you.

How fever’d is that man, who cannot look Upon his mortal days with temperate blood, Who vexes all the leaves of his life’s book, And robs his fair name of its maidenhood:

Misers of sound and syllable, no less Than Midas of his coinage, let us be Jealous of dead leaves in the bay-wreath crown:

So, if we may not let the Muse be free, She will be bound with garlands of her own.

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-conched ear: Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see The winged Psyche with awaken’d eyes?

’Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness,— That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country-green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!

O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— To thy high requiem become a sod.

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 Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

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 Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep In the next valley-glades:

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 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?

Upon a time, before the faery broods Drove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous woods, Before King Oberon’s bright diadem, Sceptre, and mantle, clasp’d with dewy gem, Frighted away the Dryads and the Fauns From rushes green, and brakes, and cowslipp’d lawns, The ever-smitten Hermes …

Fast by the springs where she to bathe was wont, And in those meads where sometimes she might haunt, Were strewn rich gifts, unknown to any Muse, Though Fancy’s casket were unlock’d to choose.

Ah, what a world of love was at her feet!

So Hermes thought, and a celestial heat Burnt from his winged heels to either ear, That from a whiteness, as the lily clear, Blush’d into roses ’mid his golden hair, Fallen in jealous curls about his shoulders bare.

Stoop, Hermes, let me breathe upon thy brow, And thou shalt see thy sweet nymph even now.” The God on half-shut feathers sank serene, She breathed upon his eyes, and swift was seen Of both the guarded nymph near-smiling on the green.

It was no dream; or say a dream it was, Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.

One warm, flush’d moment, hovering, it might seem Dash’d by the wood-nymph’s beauty, so he burn’d; Then, lighting on the printless verdure, turn’d To the swoon’d serpent, and with languid arm, Delicate, put to proof the lithe Caducean charm.

But the God fostering her chilled hand, She felt the warmth, her eyelids open’d bland, And, like new flowers at morning song of bees, Bloom’d, and gave up her honey to the lees.

Into the green-recessed woods they flew; Nor grew they pale, as mortal lovers do.

Left to herself, the serpent now began To change; her elfin blood in madness ran, Her mouth foam’d, and the grass, therewith besprent, Wither’d at dew so sweet and virulent;

Lycius from death awoke into amaze, To see her still, and singing so sweet lays; Then from amaze into delight he fell To hear her whisper woman’s lore so well; And every word she spake enticed him on To unperplex’d delight and pleasure known.

Let the mad poets say whate’er they please Of the sweets of Fairies, Peris, Goddesses, There is not such a treat among them all, Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall, As a real woman, lineal indeed From Pyrrha’s pebbles or old Adam’s seed.

Thus gentle Lamia judged, and judged aright, That Lycius could not love in half a fright, So threw the goddess off, and won his heart More pleasantly by playing woman’s part, With no more awe than what her beauty gave, That, while it smote, still …

the most curious Were foil’d, who watch’d to trace them to their house: And but the flitter-winged verse must tell, For truth’s sake, what woe afterwards befell, ’Twould humour many a heart to leave them thus, Shut from the busy world of more incredulous.

Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is⁠—Love, forgive us!⁠—cinders, ashes, dust;

Love in a palace is perhaps at last More grievous torment than a hermit’s fast:— That is a doubtful tale from faery land, Hard for the non-elect to understand.

The lady, ever watchful, penetrant, Saw this with pain, so arguing a want Of something more, more than her empery Of joys; and she began to moan and sigh Because he mused beyond her, knowing well That but a moment’s thought is passion’s passing bell.

“Why do you sigh, fair creature?” whisper’d he: “Why do you think?” return’d she tenderly:

“You have deserted me;—where am I now? Not in your heart while care weighs on your brow: No, no, you have dismiss’d me; and I go From your breast houseless: aye, it must be so.”

And for the youth, quick, let us strip for him The thyrsus, that his watching eyes may swim Into forgetfulness; and, for the sage, Let spear-grass and the spiteful thistle wage War on his temples.

Do not all charms fly At the mere touch of cold philosophy?

There was an awful rainbow once in heaven: We know her woof, her texture; she is given In the dull catalogue of common things.

and, for the sage, Let spear-grass and the spiteful thistle wage War on his temples. Do not all charms fly At the mere touch of cold philosophy?

There was an awful rainbow once in heaven: We know her woof, her texture; she is given In the dull catalogue of common things.

Philosophy will clip an Angel’s wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine— Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made The tender-person’d Lamia melt into a shade.

There was no recognition in those orbs: “Lamia!” he cried—and no soft-toned reply. The many heard, and the loud revelry Grew hush: the stately music no more breathes; The myrtle sicken’d in a thousand wreaths. By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure ceased

A deadly silence step by step increased, Until it seem’d a horrid presence there, And not a man but felt the terror in his hair.

“Lamia!” he shriek’d; and nothing but the shriek With its sad echo did the silence break. “Begone, foul dream!” he cried, gazing again In the bride’s face, where now no azure vein Wander’d on fair-spaced temples; no soft bloom Misted the cheek;

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, 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; 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 twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; 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 barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!

Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast, Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone, Bright eyes, accomplish’d shape, and lang’rous waist!

The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone! Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast, Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone, Bright eyes, accomplish’d shape, and lang’rous waist!

Faded the flower and all its budded charms, Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes, Faded the shape of beauty from my arms, Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise!

Vanish’d unseasonably at shut of eve, When the dusk holiday—or holinight— Of fragrant-curtain’d love begins to weave The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight: But, as I’ve read love’s missal through to-day, He’ll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.

Vanish’d unseasonably at shut of eve, When the dusk holiday—or holinight— Of fragrant-curtain’d love begins to weave The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight: But, as I’ve read love’s missal through to-day, He’ll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.

I cry your mercy⁠—pity⁠—love⁠—aye, love!

Merciful love that tantalizes not, One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love, Unmask’d, and being seen—without a blot! O! let me have thee whole,—all—all—be mine!

When, howe’er poor or parti-colour’d things, My muse had wings, And ever ready was to take her course Whither I bent her force, Unintellectual, yet divine to me;— Divine, I say!—

What sea-bird o’er the sea Is a philosopher the while he goes Winging along where the great water throes?

How shall I do To get anew Those moulted feathers, and so mount once more Above, above The reach of fluttering Love, And make him cower lowly while I soar? Shall I gulp wine?

Shall I gulp wine? No, that is vulgarism, A heresy and schism, Foisted into the canon law of love;—

No,⁠—wine is only sweet to happy men;

More dismal cares Seize on me unawares,— Where shall I learn to get my piece again?— To banish thoughts of that most hateful land, Dungeoner of my friends, that wicked strand Where they were wreck’d and live a wrecked life;

O, let me once more rest My soul upon that dazzling breast! Let once again these aching arms be placed, The tender gaolers of thy waist! And let me feel that warm breath here and there To spread a rapture in my very hair,—

O, the sweetness of the pain! Give me those lips again!

Enough! Enough! it is enough for me To dream of thee!

Let once again these aching arms be placed, The tender gaolers of thy waist! And let me feel that warm breath here and there To spread a rapture in my very hair,— O, the sweetness of the pain! Give me those lips again!

Enough! Enough! it is enough for me To dream of thee!

An attempt at remodelling the fragment of Hyperion into the form of a vision.

For Poesy alone can tell her dreams,— With the fine spell of words alone can save Imagination from the sable chain And dumb enchantment. Who alive can say, “Thou art no Poet—may’st not tell thy dreams?”

Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.

Whether the dream now purpos’d to rehearse Be poet’s or fanatic’s will be known When this warm scribe, my hand, is in the grave.

Who alive can say, “Thou art no Poet—may’st not tell thy dreams?” Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.

Whether the dream now purpos’d to rehearse Be poet’s or fanatic’s will be known When this warm scribe, my hand, is in the grave.

Methought I stood where trees of every clime, Palm, myrtle, oak, and sycamore, and beech, With plantane and spice-blossoms, made a screen, In neighbourhood of fountains (by the noise Soft-showering in mine ears), and (by the touch Of scent) not far from roses.

I sure should see Other men here, but I am here alone.” “Those whom thou spakest of are no visionaries,” Rejoin’d that voice; “they are no dreamers weak;

They seek no wonder but the human face, No music but a happy-noted voice:

They come not here, they have no thought to come; And thou art here, for thou art less than they. What benefit canst thou do, or all thy tribe, To the great world? Thou art a dreaming thing, A fever of thyself:

think of the earth; What bliss, even in hope, is there for thee? What haven? every creature hath its home, Every sole man hath days of joy and pain, Whether his labours be sublime or low— The pain alone, the joy alone, distinct:

Only the dreamer venoms all his days, Bearing more woe than all his sins deserve.

Therefore, that happiness be somewhat shared, Such things as thou art are admitted oft Into like gardens thou didst pass erewhile, And suffer’d in these temples: for that cause Thou standest safe beneath this statue’s knees.”

But for her eyes I should have fled away; They held me back with a benignant light, Soft, mitigated by divinest lids Half-clos’d, and visionless entire they seem’d Of all external things; they saw me not,

But in blank splendour beam’d, like the mild moon, Who comforts those she sees not, who knows not What eyes are upward cast.

As I had found A grain of gold upon a mountain’s side, And, twing’d with avarice, strain’d out my eyes To search its sullen entrails rich with ore, So, at the view of sad Moneta’s brow, I ask’d to see what things the hollow brow …

No sooner had this conjuration past My devout lips, than side by side we stood (Like a stunt bramble by a solemn pine)

Deep in the shady sadness of a vale Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, Far from the fiery noon and eve’s one star.

Onward I look’d beneath the gloomy boughs, And saw what first I thought an image huge, Like to the image pedestall’d so high In Saturn’s temple; then Moneta’s voice Came brief upon mine ear. “So Saturn sat When he had lost his realms;”

“With such remorseless speed still come new woes, That unbelief has not a space to breathe. Saturn! sleep on: me thoughtless, why should I Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude? Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes? Saturn! sleep on, while at thy feet I weep.”

As when upon a tranced summer-night Forests, branch-charmed by the earnest stars, Dream, and so dream all night without a noise, Save from one gradual solitary gust Swelling upon the silence, dying off, As if the ebbing air had but one wave, So came these words and went;

the while in tears She prest her fair large forehead to the earth, Just where her fallen hair might spread in curls, A soft and silken net for Saturn’s feet.

the while in tears She prest her fair large forehead to the earth, Just where her fallen hair might spread in curls, A soft and silken net for Saturn’s feet.

Long, long these two were postured motionless, Like sculpture builded-up upon the grave Of their own power.

A long awful time I look’d upon them: still they were the same; The frozen God still bending to the earth, And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet; Moneta silent.

Moan, brethren, moan; for lo, the rebel spheres Spin round; the stars their ancient courses keep; Clouds still with shadowy moisture haunt the earth, Still suck their fill of light from sun and moon; Still buds the tree, and still the seashores murmur;

There is no death in all the universe, No smell of death.⁠—There shall be death.

Moan, moan; Moan, Cybele, moan; for thy pernicious babes Have chang’d a god into an aching palsy. Moan, brethren, moan, for I have no strength left; Weak as the reed, weak, feeble as my voice. Oh! Oh! the pain, the pain of feebleness;

“Mortal, that thou may’st understand aright, I humanize my sayings to thine ear, Making comparisons of earthly things;

Or thou might’st better listen to the wind, Whose language is to thee a barren noise, Though it blows legend-laden thro’ the trees.

In melancholy realms big tears are shed, More sorrow like to this, and such like woe, Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of scribe. The Titans fierce, self-hid or prison-bound, Groan for the old allegiance once more, Listening in their doom for Saturn’s voice.

fam’d ev’rywhere For love of mortal women, maidens fair, Whose lips were solid, whose soft hands were made Of a fit mould and beauty, ripe and rare, To pamper his slight wooing, warm yet staid:

He loved girls smooth as shades, but hated a mere shade.

This was a crime forbidden by the law; And all the priesthood of his city wept, For ruin and dismay they well foresaw, If impious prince no bound or limit kept, And faery Zendervester overstept;

This was a crime forbidden by the law; And all the priesthood of his city wept, For ruin and dismay they well foresaw, If impious prince no bound or limit kept, And faery Zendervester overstept;

They wept, he sinn’d, and still he would sin on, They dreamt of sin, and he sinn’d while they slept;

In vain the pulpit thunder’d at the throne, Caricature was vain, and vain the tart lampoon.

They wept, he sinn’d, and still he would sin on, They dreamt of sin, and he sinn’d while they slept;

In vain the pulpit thunder’d at the throne, Caricature was vain, and vain the tart lampoon.

Which seeing, his high court of parliament Laid a remonstrance at his Highness’ feet, Praying his royal senses to content Themselves with what in faery land was sweet, Befitting best that shade with shade should meet:

So said, one minute’s while his eyes remain’d Half lidded, piteous, languid, innocent; But, in a wink, their splendour they regain’d, Sparkling revenge with amorous fury blent.

Love thwarted in bad temper oft has vent:

He rose, he stampt his foot, he rang the bell, And order’d some death-warrants to be sent For signature:—somewhere the tempest fell, As many a poor fellow does not live to tell.

His purple vest, that ever peeping was Rich from the fluttering crimson of his cloak, His silvery trousers, and his silken sash Tied in a burnish’d knot, their semblance took Upon the mirror’d walls, wherever he might look.

He smiled at self, and, smiling, show’d his teeth, And seeing his white teeth, he smiled the more;

Lifted his eyebrows, spurn’d the path beneath, Show’d teeth again, and smiled as heretofore, Until he knock’d at the magician’s door;