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

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sovereign vision.–Dearest love, forgive

      That I can think away from thee and live!–

      Pardon me, airy planet, that I prize

      One thought beyond thine argent luxuries!

      How far beyond!” At this a surpris’d start

      Frosted the springing verdure of his heart;

      For as he lifted up his eyes to swear

      How his own goddess was past all things fair,

      He saw far in the concave green of the sea

      An old man sitting calm and peacefully.

      Upon a weeded rock this old man sat,

      And his white hair was awful, and a mat

      Of weeds were cold beneath his cold thin feet;

      And, ample as the largest winding-sheet,

      A cloak of blue wrapp’d up his aged bones,

      O’erwrought with symbols by the deepest groans

      Of ambitious magic: every ocean-form

      Was woven in with black distinctness; storm,

      And calm, and whispering, and hideous roar

      Were emblem’d in the woof; with every shape

      That skims, or dives, or sleeps, ‘twixt cape and cape.

      The gulphing whale was like a dot in the spell,

      Yet look upon it, and ’twould size and swell

      To its huge self; and the minutest fish

      Would pass the very hardest gazer’s wish,

      And shew his little eye’s anatomy.

      Then there was pictur’d the regality

      Of Neptune; and the sea nymphs round his state,

      In beauteous vassalage, look up and wait.

      Beside this old man lay a pearly wand,

      And in his lap a book, the which he conn’d

      So stedfastly, that the new denizen

      Had time to keep him in amazed ken,

      To mark these shadowings, and stand in awe.

      The old man rais’d his hoary head and saw

      The wilder’d stranger–seeming not to see,

      His features were so lifeless. Suddenly

      He woke as from a trance; his snow-white brows

      Went arching up, and like two magic ploughs

      Furrow’d deep wrinkles in his forehead large,

      Which kept as fixedly as rocky marge,

      Till round his wither’d lips had gone a smile.

      Then up he rose, like one whose tedious toil

      Had watch’d for years in forlorn hermitage,

      Who had not from mid-life to utmost age

      Eas’d in one accent his o’erburden’d soul,

      Even to the trees. He rose: he grasp’d his stole,

      With convuls’d clenches waving it abroad,

      And in a voice of solemn joy, that aw’d

      Echo into oblivion, he said:–

      “Thou art the man! Now shall I lay my head

      In peace upon my watery pillow: now

      Sleep will come smoothly to my weary brow.

      O Jove! I shall be young again, be young!

      O shell-borne Neptune, I am pierc’d and stung

      With new-born life! What shall I do? Where go,

      When I have cast this serpent-skin of woe?–

      I’ll swim to the syrens, and one moment listen

      Their melodies, and see their long hair glisten;

      Anon upon that giant’s arm I’ll be,

      That writhes about the roots of Sicily:

      To northern seas I’ll in a twinkling sail,

      And mount upon the snortings of a whale

      To some black cloud; thence down I’ll madly sweep

      On forked lightning, to the deepest deep,

      Where through some sucking pool I will be hurl’d

      With rapture to the other side of the world!

      O, I am full of gladness! Sisters three,

      I bow full hearted to your old decree!

      Yes, every god be thank’d, and power benign,

      For I no more shall wither, droop, and pine.

      Thou art the man!” Endymion started back

      Dismay’d; and, like a wretch from whom the rack

      Tortures hot breath, and speech of agony,

      Mutter’d: “What lonely death am I to die

      In this cold region? Will he let me freeze,

      And float my brittle limbs o’er polar seas?

      Or will he touch me with his searing hand,

      And leave a black memorial on the sand?

      Or tear me piece-meal with a bony saw,

      And keep me as a chosen food to draw

      His magian fish through hated fire and flame?

      O misery of hell! resistless, tame,

      Am I to be burnt up? No, I will shout,

      Until the gods through heaven’s blue look out!–

      O Tartarus! but some few days agone

      Her soft arms were entwining me, and on

      Her voice I hung like fruit among green leaves:

      Her lips were all my own, and–ah, ripe sheaves

      Of happiness! ye on the stubble droop,

      But never may be garner’d. I must stoop

      My head, and kiss death’s foot. Love! love, farewel!

      Is there no hope from thee? This horrid spell

      Would melt at thy sweet breath.–By Dian’s hind

      Feeding from her white fingers, on the wind

      I see thy streaming hair! and now, by Pan,

      I care not for this old mysterious man!”

      He spake, and walking to that aged form,

      Look’d high defiance. Lo! his heart ‘gan warm

      With pity, for the grey-hair’d creature wept.

      Had he then wrong’d a heart where sorrow kept?

      Had he, though blindly contumelious, brought

      Rheum to kind eyes, a sting to human thought,

      Convulsion to a mouth of many years?

      He had in truth; and he was ripe for tears.

      The penitent shower fell, as down he knelt

      Before that careworn sage, who trembling felt

      About his large dark locks, and faultering spake:

      “Arise, good youth, for sacred Phœbus’ sake!

      I know thine inmost bosom, and I feel

      A very brother’s yearning for thee steal

      Into mine own: for why? thou openest

      The prison gates that have so long opprest

      My weary watching. Though thou know’st it not,

      Thou art commission’d

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