Selected Poems and Letters. John Keats

he knew not how,

      So noiseless, and he never thought to know.

      As men talk in a dream, so Corinth all,

      Throughout her palaces imperial,

      And all her populous streets and temples lewd,

      Mutter’d, like tempest in the distance brew’d,

      To the wide-spreaded night above her towers.

      Men, women, rich and poor, in the cool hours,

      Shuffled their sandals o’er the pavement white,

      Companion’d or alone; while many a light

      Flared, here and there, from wealthy festivals,

      And threw their moving shadows on the walls,

      Or found them cluster’d in the corniced shade

      Of some arch’d temple door, or dusky colonnade.

      Muffling his face, of greeting friends in fear,

      Her fingers he press’d hard, as one came near

      With curl’d gray beard, sharp eyes, and smooth bald crown,

      Slow-stepp’d, and robed in philosophic gown:

      Lycius shrank closer, as they met and past,

      Into his mantle, adding wings to haste,

      While hurried Lamia trembled: “Ah,” said he,

      “Why do you shudder, love, so ruefully?

      Why does your tender palm dissolve in dew?” –

      “I’m wearied,” said fair Lamia: “tell me who

      Is that old man? I cannot bring to mind

      His features: – Lycius! wherefore did you blind

      Yourself from his quick eyes?” Lycius replied,

      “’Tis Apollonius sage, my trusty guide

      And good instructor; but to-night he seems

      The ghost of folly haunting my sweet dreams.”

      While yet he spake they had arrived before

      A pillar’d porch, with lofty portal door,

      Where hung a silver lamp, whose phosphor glow

      Reflected in the slabbed steps below,

      Mild as a star in water; for so new,

      And so unsullied was the marble hue,

      So through the crystal polish, liquid fine,

      Ran the dark veins, that none but feet divine

      Could e’er have touch’d there. Sounds Æolian

      Breath’d from the hinges, as the ample span

      Of the wide doors disclos’d a place unknown

      Some time to any, but those two alone,

      And a few Persian mutes, who that same year

      Were seen about the markets: none knew where

      They could inhabit; 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 befel,

      ’Twould humour many a heart to leave them thus,

      Shut from the busy world of more incredulous.

      PART II.

      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.

      Had Lycius liv’d to hand his story down,

      He might have given the moral a fresh frown,

      Or clench’d it quite: but too short was their bliss

      To breed distrust and hate, that make the soft voice hiss.

      Besides, there, nightly, with terrific glare

      Love, jealous grown of so complete a pair,

      Hover’d and buzz’d his wings, with fearful roar,

      Above the lintel of their chamber door,

      And down the passage cast a glow upon the floor.

      For all this came a ruin: side by side

      They were enthroned, in the even tide,

      Upon a couch, near to a curtaining

      Whose airy texture, from a golden string,

      Floated into the room, and let appear

      Unveil’d the summer heaven, blue and clear,

      Betwixt two marble shafts: – there they reposed,

      Where use had made it sweet, with eyelids closed,

      Saving a tythe which love still open kept,

      That they might see each other while they almost slept;

      When from the slope side of a suburb hill,

      Deafening the swallow’s twitter, came a thrill

      Of trumpets – Lycius started – the sounds fled,

      But left a thought, a buzzing in his head.

      For the first time, since first he harbour’d in

      That purple-lined palace of sweet sin,

      His spirit pass’d beyond its golden bourn

      Into the noisy world almost forsworn.

      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: ay, it must be so.”

      He answer’d, bending to her open eyes,

      Where he was mirror’d small in paradise,

      “My silver planet, both of eve and morn!

      Why will you plead yourself so sad forlorn,

      While I am striving how to fill my heart

      With deeper crimson, and a double smart?

      How to entangle, trammel up and snare

      Your soul in mine, and labyrinth you there