The Complete Works: Poetry, Plays, Letters and Extensive Biographies - John Keats

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friendship, whence there ever issues forth

      A steady splendour; but at the tip-top,

      There hangs by unseen film, an orbed drop

      Of light, and that is love: its influence,

      Thrown in our eyes, genders a novel sense,

      At which we start and fret; till in the end,

      Melting into its radiance, we blend,

      Mingle, and so become a part of it,–

      Nor with aught else can our souls interknit

      So wingedly: when we combine therewith,

      Life’s self is nourish’d by its proper pith,

      And we are nurtured like a pelican brood.

      Aye, so delicious is the unsating food,

      That men, who might have tower’d in the van

      Of all the congregated world, to fan

      And winnow from the coming step of time

      All chaff of custom, wipe away all slime

      Left by men-slugs and human serpentry,

      Have been content to let occasion die,

      Whilst they did sleep in love’s elysium.

      And, truly, I would rather be struck dumb,

      Than speak against this ardent listlessness:

      For I have ever thought that it might bless

      The world with benefits unknowingly;

      As does the nightingale, upperched high,

      And cloister’d among cool and bunched leaves–

      She sings but to her love, nor e’er conceives

      How tiptoe Night holds back her dark-grey hood.

      Just so may love, although ’tis understood

      The mere commingling of passionate breath,

      Produce more than our searching witnesseth:

      What I know not: but who, of men, can tell

      That flowers would bloom, or that green fruit would swell

      To melting pulp, that fish would have bright mail,

      The earth its dower of river, wood, and vale,

      The meadows runnels, runnels pebble-stones,

      The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones,

      Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet,

      If human souls did never kiss and greet?

      “Now, if this earthly love has power to make

      Men’s being mortal, immortal; to shake

      Ambition from their memories, and brim

      Their measure of content; what merest whim,

      Seems all this poor endeavour after fame,

      To one, who keeps within his stedfast aim

      A love immortal, an immortal too.

      Look not so wilder’d; for these things are true,

      And never can be born of atomies

      That buzz about our slumbers, like brain-flies,

      Leaving us fancy-sick. No, no, I’m sure,

      My restless spirit never could endure

      To brood so long upon one luxury,

      Unless it did, though fearfully, espy

      A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.

      My sayings will the less obscured seem,

      When I have told thee how my waking sight

      Has made me scruple whether that same night

      Was pass’d in dreaming. Hearken, sweet Peona!

      Beyond the matron-temple of Latona,

      Which we should see but for these darkening boughs,

      Lies a deep hollow, from whose ragged brows

      Bushes and trees do lean all round athwart,

      And meet so nearly, that with wings outraught,

      And spreaded tail, a vulture could not glide

      Past them, but he must brush on every side.

      Some moulder’d steps lead into this cool cell,

      Far as the slabbed margin of a well,

      Whose patient level peeps its crystal eye

      Right upward, through the bushes, to the sky.

      Oft have I brought thee flowers, on their stalks set

      Like vestal primroses, but dark velvet

      Edges them round, and they have golden pits:

      ’Twas there I got them, from the gaps and slits

      In a mossy stone, that sometimes was my seat,

      When all above was faint with mid-day heat.

      And there in strife no burning thoughts to heed,

      I’d bubble up the water through a reed;

      So reaching back to boyhood: make me ships

      Of moulted feathers, touchwood, alder chips,

      With leaves stuck in them; and the Neptune be

      Of their petty ocean. Oftener, heavily,

      When lovelorn hours had left me less a child,

      I sat contemplating the figures wild

      Of o’er-head clouds melting the mirror through.

      Upon a day, while thus I watch’d, by flew

      A cloudy Cupid, with his bow and quiver;

      So plainly character’d, no breeze would shiver

      The happy chance: so happy, I was fain

      To follow it upon the open plain,

      And, therefore, was just going; when, behold!

      A wonder, fair as any I have told–

      The same bright face I tasted in my sleep,

      Smiling in the clear well. My heart did leap

      Through the cool depth.–It moved as if to flee–

      I started up, when lo! refreshfully,

      There came upon my face, in plenteous showers,

      Dewdrops, and dewy buds, and leaves, and flowers,

      Wrapping all objects from my smothered sight,

      Bathing my spirit in a new delight.

      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 scar’d away by slow returning pleasure.

      How sickening, how dark the dreadful leisure

      Of weary days, made deeper exquisite,

      By a fore-knowledge of unslumbrous night!

      Like sorrow came upon me, heavier still,

      Than when I wander’d from the poppy hill:

      And a whole age of lingering moments crept

      Sluggishly by, ere more contentment swept

      Away at once the deadly yellow spleen.

      Yes, thrice have I this fair enchantment seen;

      Once more been tortured with renewed life.

      When

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