Selected Poems and Letters. John Keats

name of one Boileau!

      O ye whose charge

      It is to hover round our pleasant hills!

      Whose congregated majesty so fills

      My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace

      Your hallowed names, in this unholy place,

      So near those common folk; did not their shames

      Affright you? Did our old lamenting Thames

      Delight you? Did ye never cluster round

      Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound,

      And weep? Or did ye wholly bid adieu

      To regions where no more the laurel grew?

      Or did ye stay to give a welcoming

      To some lone spirits who could proudly sing

      Their youth away, and die? ’Twas even so:

      But let me think away those times of woe:

      Now ’tis a fairer season; ye have breathed

      Rich benedictions o’er us; ye have wreathed

      Fresh garlands: for sweet music has been heard

      In many places; – some has been upstirr’d

      From out its crystal dwelling in a lake,

      By a swan’s ebon bill; from a thick brake,

      Nested and quiet in a valley mild,

      Bubbles a pipe; fine sounds are floating wild

      About the earth: happy are ye and glad.

      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 eye-lids 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; for it feeds upon the burrs,

      And thorns of life; forgetting the great end

      Of poesy, that it should be a friend

      To sooth the cares, and lift the thoughts of man.

      Yet I rejoice: a myrtle fairer than

      E’er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds

      Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds

      A silent space with ever sprouting green.

      All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen,

      Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering,

      Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing.

      Then let us clear away the choaking thorns

      From round its gentle stem; let the young fawns,

      Yeaned in after times, when we are flown,

      Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown

      With simple flowers: 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 closed 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.

      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!

      If I do hide myself, it sure shall be

      In the very fane, the light of Poesy:

      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 oft’ 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: though no great minist’ring reason sorts

      Out the dark mysteries of human souls

      To clear conceiving: yet there ever rolls

      A vast idea before me, and I glean

      Therefrom my liberty; thence too I’ve seen

      The end and aim of Poesy. ’Tis clear

      As any thing 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 eye-lids 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 Dedalian wings, and drive me down

      Convuls’d and headlong! Stay! an inward frown

      Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile.

      An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle,

      Spreads awfully before me. How much toil!

      How many days! what desperate turmoil!

      Ere I can have explored its widenesses.

      Ah, what a task! upon my bended knees,

      I could unsay those – no, impossible!

      Impossible!

      For sweet relief I’ll dwell

      On humbler thoughts, and let this strange assay

      Begun in gentleness die so away.

      E’en now all tumult from my bosom fades:

      I turn