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

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to weeds or flowers; but for me,

      There is no depth to strike in: I can see

      Nought earthly worth my compassing; so stand

      Upon a misty, jutting head of land–

      Alone? No, no; and by the Orphean lute,

      When mad Eurydice is listening to’t;

      I’d rather stand upon this misty peak,

      With not a thing to sigh for, or to seek,

      But the soft shadow of my thrice-seen love,

      Than be–I care not what. O meekest dove

      Of heaven! O Cynthia, tentimes bright and fair!

      From thy blue throne, now filling all the air,

      Glance but one little beam of temper’d light

      Into my bosom, that the dreadful might

      And tyranny of love be somewhat scar’d!

      Yet do not so, sweet queen; one torment spar’d,

      Would give a pang to jealous misery,

      Worse than the torment’s self: but rather tie

      Large wings upon my shoulders, and point out

      My love’s far dwelling. Though the playful rout

      Of Cupids shun thee, too divine art thou,

      Too keen in beauty, for thy silver prow

      Not to have dipp’d in love’s most gentle stream.

      O be propitious, nor severely deem

      My madness impious; for, by all the stars

      That tend thy bidding, I do think the bars

      That kept my spirit in are burst–that I

      Am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky!

      How beautiful thou art! The world how deep!

      How tremulous-dazzlingly the wheels sweep

      Around their axle! Then these gleaming reins,

      How lithe! When this thy chariot attains

      Its airy goal, haply some bower veils

      Those twilight eyes?–Those eyes!–my spirit fails–

      Dear goddess, help! or the wide-gaping air

      Will gulph me–help!”–At this with madden’d stare,

      And lifted hands, and trembling lips he stood;

      Like old Deucalion mountain’d o’er the flood,

      Or blind Orion hungry for the morn.

      And, but from the deep cavern there was borne

      A voice, he had been froze to senseless stone;

      Nor sigh of his, nor plaint, nor passion’d moan

      Had more been heard. Thus swell’d it forth: “Descend,

      Young mountaineer! descend where alleys bend

      Into the sparry hollows of the world!

      Oft hast thou seen bolts of the thunder hurl’d

      As from thy threshold; day by day hast been

      A little lower than the chilly sheen

      Of icy pinnacles, and dipp’dst thine arms

      Into the deadening ether that still charms

      Their marble being: now, as deep profound

      As those are high, descend! He ne’er is crown’d

      With immortality, who fears to follow

      Where airy voices lead: so through the hollow,

      The silent mysteries of earth, descend!”

      He heard but the last words, nor could contend

      One moment in reflection: for he fled

      Into the fearful deep, to hide his head

      From the clear moon, the trees, and coming madness.

      ’Twas far too strange, and wonderful for sadness;

      Sharpening, by degrees, his appetite

      To dive into the deepest. Dark, nor light,

      The region; nor bright, nor sombre wholly,

      But mingled up; a gleaming melancholy;

      A dusky empire and its diadems;

      One faint eternal eventide of gems.

      Aye, millions sparkled on a vein of gold,

      Along whose track the prince quick footsteps told,

      With all its lines abrupt and angular:

      Out-shooting sometimes, like a meteor-star,

      Through a vast antre; then the metal woof,

      Like Vulcan’s rainbow, with some monstrous roof

      Curves hugely: now, far in the deep abyss,

      It seems an angry lightning, and doth hiss

      Fancy into belief: anon it leads

      Through winding passages, where sameness breeds

      Vexing conceptions of some sudden change;

      Whether to silver grots, or giant range

      Of sapphire columns, or fantastic bridge

      Athwart a flood of crystal. On a ridge

      Now fareth he, that o’er the vast beneath

      Towers like an ocean-cliff, and whence he seeth

      A hundred waterfalls, whose voices come

      But as the murmuring surge. Chilly and numb

      His bosom grew, when first he, far away,

      Descried an orbed diamond, set to fray

      Old darkness from his throne: ’twas like the sun

      Uprisen o’er chaos: and with such a stun

      Came the amazement, that, absorb’d in it,

      He saw not fiercer wonders–past the wit

      Of any spirit to tell, but one of those

      Who, when this planet’s sphering time doth close,

      Will be its high remembrancers: who they?

      The mighty ones who have made eternal day

      For Greece and England. While astonishment

      With deep-drawn sighs was quieting, he went

      Into a marble gallery, passing through

      A mimic temple, so complete and true

      In sacred custom, that he well nigh fear’d

      To search it inwards; whence far off appear’d,

      Through a long pillar’d vista, a fair shrine,

      And, just beyond, on light tiptoe divine,

      A quiver’d Dian. Stepping awfully,

      The youth approach’d; oft turning his veil’d eye

      Down sidelong aisles, and into niches old.

      And when, more near against the marble cold

      He had touch’d his forehead, he began to thread

      All courts and passages, where silence dead

      Rous’d by his whispering footsteps murmured faint:

      And long he travers’d to and fro, to acquaint

      Himself with every mystery, and awe;

      Till, weary, he sat down before the maw

      Of a wide outlet, fathomless and dim

      To wild uncertainty and shadows grim.

      There, when new wonders ceas’d to float before,

      And

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