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

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of rosy pride,

      In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth

      Of fondest beauty; fonder, in fair sooth,

      Than sighs could fathom, or contentment reach:

      And coverlids gold-tinted like the peach,

      Or ripe October’s faded marigolds,

      Fell sleek about him in a thousand folds–

      Not hiding up an Apollonian curve

      Of neck and shoulder, nor the tenting swerve

      Of knee from knee, nor ankles pointing light;

      But rather, giving them to the filled sight

      Officiously. Sideway his face repos’d

      On one white arm, and tenderly unclos’d,

      By tenderest pressure, a faint damask mouth

      To slumbery pout; just as the morning south

      Disparts a dew-lipp’d rose. Above his head,

      Four lily stalks did their white honours wed

      To make a coronal; and round him grew

      All tendrils green, of every bloom and hue,

      Together intertwin’d and trammel’d fresh:

      The vine of glossy sprout; the ivy mesh,

      Shading its Ethiop berries; and woodbine,

      Of velvet leaves and bugle-blooms divine;

      Convolvulus in streaked vases flush;

      The creeper, mellowing for an autumn blush;

      And virgin’s bower, trailing airily;

      With others of the sisterhood. Hard by,

      Stood serene Cupids watching silently.

      One, kneeling to a lyre, touch’d the strings,

      Muffling to death the pathos with his wings;

      And, ever and anon, uprose to look

      At the youth’s slumber; while another took

      A willow-bough, distilling odorous dew,

      And shook it on his hair; another flew

      In through the woven roof, and fluttering-wise

      Rain’d violets upon his sleeping eyes.

      At these enchantments, and yet many more,

      The breathless Latmian wonder’d o’er and o’er;

      Until, impatient in embarrassment,

      He forthright pass’d, and lightly treading went

      To that same feather’d lyrist, who straightway,

      Smiling, thus whisper’d: “Though from upper day

      Thou art a wanderer, and thy presence here

      Might seem unholy, be of happy cheer!

      For ’tis the nicest touch of human honour,

      When some ethereal and high-favouring donor

      Presents immortal bowers to mortal sense;

      As now ’tis done to thee, Endymion. Hence

      Was I in no wise startled. So recline

      Upon these living flowers. Here is wine,

      Alive with sparkles–never, I aver,

      Since Ariadne was a vintager,

      So cool a purple: taste these juicy pears,

      Sent me by sad Vertumnus, when his fears

      Were high about Pomona: here is cream,

      Deepening to richness from a snowy gleam;

      Sweeter than that nurse Amalthea skimm’d

      For the boy Jupiter: and here, undimm’d

      By any touch, a bunch of blooming plums

      Ready to melt between an infant’s gums:

      And here is manna pick’d from Syrian trees,

      In starlight, by the three Hesperides.

      Feast on, and meanwhile I will let thee know

      Of all these things around us.” He did so,

      Still brooding o’er the cadence of his lyre;

      And thus: “I need not any hearing tire

      By telling how the sea-born goddess pin’d

      For a mortal youth, and how she strove to bind

      Him all in all unto her doting self.

      Who would not be so prison’d? but, fond elf,

      He was content to let her amorous plea

      Faint through his careless arms; content to see

      An unseiz’d heaven dying at his feet;

      Content, O fool! to make a cold retreat,

      When on the pleasant grass such love, lovelorn,

      Lay sorrowing; when every tear was born

      Of diverse passion; when her lips and eyes

      Were clos’d in sullen moisture, and quick sighs

      Came vex’d and pettish through her nostrils small.

      Hush! no exclaim–yet, justly mightst thou call

      Curses upon his head.–I was half glad,

      But my poor mistress went distract and mad,

      When the boar tusk’d him: so away she flew

      To Jove’s high throne, and by her plainings drew

      Immortal tear-drops down the thunderer’s beard;

      Whereon, it was decreed he should be rear’d

      Each summer time to life. Lo! this is he,

      That same Adonis, safe in the privacy

      Of this still region all his winter-sleep.

      Aye, sleep; for when our lovesick queen did weep

      Over his waned corse, the tremulous shower

      Heal’d up the wound, and, with a balmy power,

      Medicined death to a lengthened drowsiness:

      The which she fills with visions, and doth dress

      In all this quiet luxury; and hath set

      Us young immortals, without any let,

      To watch his slumber through. ’Tis well nigh pass’d,

      Even to a moment’s filling up, and fast

      She scuds with summer breezes, to pant through

      The first long kiss, warm firstling, to renew

      Embower’d sports in Cytherea’s isle.

      Look! how those winged listeners all this while

      Stand anxious: see! behold!”–This clamant word

      Broke through the careful silence; for they heard

      A rustling noise of leaves, and out there flutter’d

      Pigeons and doves: Adonis something mutter’d,

      The while one hand, that erst upon his thigh

      Lay dormant, mov’d convuls’d and gradually

      Up to his forehead. Then there was a hum

      Of sudden voices, echoing, “Come! come!

      Arise! awake! Clear summer has forth walk’d

      Unto the clover-sward, and she has talk’d

      Full soothingly to every nested finch:

      Rise, Cupids! or we’ll give the bluebell pinch

      To your dimpled arms. Once more sweet life begin!”

      At this, from every side they hurried in,

      Rubbing

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