Selected Poems and Letters. John Keats

smooth the path of honour; brotherhood,

      And friendliness the nurse of mutual good.

      The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet

      Into the brain ere one can think upon it;

      The silence when some rhymes are coming out;

      And when they’re come, the very pleasant rout:

      The message certain to be done to-morrow.

      ’Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrow

      Some precious book from out its snug retreat,

      To cluster round it when we next shall meet.

      Scarce can I scribble on; for lovely airs

      Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs;

      Many delights of that glad day recalling,

      When first my senses caught their tender falling.

      And with these airs come forms of elegance

      Stooping their shoulders o’er a horse’s prance,

      Careless, and grand – fingers soft and round

      Parting luxuriant curls; – and the swift bound

      Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye

      Made Ariadne’s cheek look blushingly.

      Thus I remember all the pleasant flow

      Of words at opening a portfolio.

      Things such as these are ever harbingers

      To trains of peaceful images: the stirs

      Of a swan’s neck unseen among the rushes:

      A linnet starting all about the bushes:

      A butterfly, with golden wings broad parted,

      Nestling a rose, convuls’d as though it smarted

      With over pleasure – many, many more,

      Might I indulge at large in all my store

      Of luxuries: yet I must not forget

      Sleep, quiet with his poppy coronet:

      For what there may be worthy in these rhymes

      I partly owe to him: and thus, the chimes

      Of friendly voices had just given place

      To as sweet a silence, when I ’gan retrace

      The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease.

      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. Then there rose to view a fane

      Of liny marble, and thereto a train

      Of nymphs approaching fairly o’er the sward:

      One, loveliest, holding her white band toward

      The dazzling sun-rise: two sisters sweet

      Bending their graceful figures till they meet

      Over the trippings of a little child:

      And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild

      Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping.

      See, in another picture, nymphs are wiping

      Cherishingly Diana’s timorous limbs; –

      A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims

      At the bath’s edge, and keeps a gentle motion

      With the subsiding crystal: as when ocean

      Heaves calmly its broad swelling smoothiness o’er

      Its rocky marge, and balances once more

      The patient weeds; that now unshent by foam

      Feel all about their undulating home.

      Sappho’s meek head was there half smiling down

      At nothing; just as though the earnest frown

      Of over thinking had that moment gone

      From off her brow, and left her all alone.

      Great Alfred’s too, with anxious, pitying eyes,

      As if he always listened to the sighs

      Of the goaded world; and Kosciusko’s worn

      By horrid suffrance – mightily forlorn.

      Petrarch, outstepping from the shady green,

      Starts at the sight of Laura; nor can wean

      His eyes from her sweet face. Most happy they!

      For over them was seen a free display

      Of out-spread wings, and from between them shone

      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

      Thought after thought to nourish up the flame

      Within my breast; so that the morning light

      Surprised me even from a sleepless night;

      And up I rose refresh’d, and glad, and gay,

      Resolving to begin that very day

      These lines; and howsoever they be done,

      I leave them as a father does his son.

       Specimen of an Induction to a Poem

      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,

      To show this wonder of its gentle might.

      Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;

      For while I muse, the lance points slantingly

      Athwart the morning air: some lady sweet,

      Who cannot feel for cold her tender feet,

      From the worn top of some old battlement

      Hails it with tears, her stout defender sent:

      And from her own pure self no joy dissembling,

      Wraps round her ample robe with happy trembling.

      Sometimes, when the good Knight his rest would take,