Selected Poems and Letters. John Keats

across the chequer’d shadows pass.

      Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach

      To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach

      A natural sermon o’er their pebbly beds;

      Where swarms of minnows show their little heads,

      Staying their wavy bodies ’gainst the streams,

      To taste the luxury of sunny beams

      Temper’d with coolness. How they ever wrestle

      With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle

      Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand.

      If you but scantily hold out the hand,

      That very instant not one will remain;

      But turn your eye, and they are there again.

      The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses,

      And cool themselves among the em’rald tresses;

      The while they cool themselves, they freshness give,

      And moisture, that the bowery green may live:

      So keeping up an interchange of favours,

      Like good men in the truth of their behaviours

      Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop

      From low hung branches; little space they stop;

      But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek;

      Then off at once, as in a wanton freak:

      Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings,

      Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.

      Were I in such a place, I sure should pray

      That nought less sweet, might call my thoughts away,

      Than the soft rustle of a maiden’s gown

      Fanning away the dandelion’s down;

      Than the light music of her nimble toes

      Patting against the sorrel as she goes.

      How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught

      Playing in all her innocence of thought.

      O let me lead her gently o’er the brook,

      Watch her half-smiling lips, and downward look;

      O let me for one moment touch her wrist;

      Let me one moment to her breathing list;

      And as she leaves me may she often turn

      Her fair eyes looking through her locks aubùrne.

      What next? A tuft of evening primroses,

      O’er which the mind may hover till it dozes;

      O’er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,

      But that ’tis ever startled by the leap

      Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting

      Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting;

      Or by the moon lifting her silver rim

      Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim

      Coming into the blue with all her light.

      O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight

      Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers;

      Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers,

      Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams,

      Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams,

      Lover of loneliness, and wandering,

      Of upcast eye, and tender pondering!

      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:

      Fair dewy roses brush against our faces,

      And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases;

      O’er head we see the jasmine and sweet briar,

      And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire;

      While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles

      Charms us at once away from all our troubles:

      So that we feel uplifted from the world,

      Walking upon the white clouds wreath’d and curl’d.

      So felt he, who first told, how Psyche went

      On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment;

      What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips

      First touch’d; what amorous, and fondling nips

      They gave each other’s cheeks; with all their sighs,

      And how they kist each other’s tremulous eyes:

      The silver lamp, – the ravishment, – the wonder –

      The darkness, – loneliness, – the fearful thunder;

      Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown,

      To bow for gratitude before Jove’s throne.

      So did he feel, who pull’d the boughs aside,

      That we might look into a forest wide,

      To catch a glimpse of Fawns, and Dryades

      Coming with softest rustle through the trees;

      And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet,

      Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet:

      Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fled

      Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread.

      Poor nymph, – poor Pan, – how he did weep to find,

      Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind

      Along the reedy stream; a half heard strain,

      Full of sweet desolation – balmy pain.

      What first inspired a bard of old to sing

      Narcissus pining o’er the untainted spring?

      In some delicious ramble, he had found

      A little space, with boughs all woven round;

      And in the midst of all, a clearer pool

      Than e’er reflected in its pleasant cool,

      The blue sky here, and there, serenely peeping

      Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping.

      And on the bank a lonely flower he spied,

      A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride,

      Drooping its beauty o’er the watery clearness,

      To woo its own sad image into nearness:

      Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move;

      But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love.

      So