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

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madness! let it mantle rosy-warm

      With the tinge of love, panting in safe alarm.–

      This cannot be thy hand, and yet it is;

      And this is sure thine other softling–this

      Thine own fair bosom, and I am so near!

      Wilt fall asleep? O let me sip that tear!

      And whisper one sweet word that I may know

      This is this world–sweet dewy blossom!”–Woe!

      Woe! Woe to that Endymion! Where is he?–

      Even these words went echoing dismally

      Through the wide forest–a most fearful tone,

      Like one repenting in his latest moan;

      And while it died away a shade pass’d by,

      As of a thunder cloud. When arrows fly

      Through the thick branches, poor ring-doves sleek forth

      Their timid necks and tremble; so these both

      Leant to each other trembling, and sat so

      Waiting for some destruction–when lo,

      Foot-feather’d Mercury appear’d sublime

      Beyond the tall tree tops; and in less time

      Than shoots the slanted hail-storm, down he dropt

      Towards the ground; but rested not, nor stopt

      One moment from his home: only the sward

      He with his wand light touch’d, and heavenward

      Swifter than sight was gone–even before

      The teeming earth a sudden witness bore

      Of his swift magic. Diving swans appear

      Above the crystal circlings white and clear;

      And catch the cheated eye in wild surprise,

      How they can dive in sight and unseen rise–

      So from the turf outsprang two steeds jet-black,

      Each with large dark blue wings upon his back.

      The youth of Caria plac’d the lovely dame

      On one, and felt himself in spleen to tame

      The other’s fierceness. Through the air they flew,

      High as the eagles. Like two drops of dew

      Exhal’d to Phœbus’ lips, away they are gone,

      Far from the earth away–unseen, alone,

      Among cool clouds and winds, but that the free,

      The buoyant life of song can floating be

      Above their heads, and follow them untir’d.–

      Muse of my native land, am I inspir’d?

      This is the giddy air, and I must spread

      Wide pinions to keep here; nor do I dread

      Or height, or depth, or width, or any chance

      Precipitous: I have beneath my glance

      Those towering horses and their mournful freight.

      Could I thus sail, and see, and thus await

      Fearless for power of thought, without thine aid?–

      There is a sleepy dusk, an odorous shade

      From some approaching wonder, and behold

      Those winged steeds, with snorting nostrils bold

      Snuff at its faint extreme, and seem to tire,

      Dying to embers from their native fire!

      There curl’d a purple mist around them; soon,

      It seem’d as when around the pale new moon

      Sad Zephyr droops the clouds like weeping willow:

      ’Twas Sleep slow journeying with head on pillow.

      For the first time, since he came nigh dead born

      From the old womb of night, his cave forlorn

      Had he left more forlorn; for the first time,

      He felt aloof the day and morning’s prime–

      Because into his depth Cimmerian

      There came a dream, shewing how a young man,

      Ere a lean bat could plump its wintery skin,

      Would at high Jove’s empyreal footstool win

      An immortality, and how espouse

      Jove’s daughter, and be reckon’d of his house.

      Now was he slumbering towards heaven’s gate,

      That he might at the threshold one hour wait

      To hear the marriage melodies, and then

      Sink downward to his dusky cave again.

      His litter of smooth semilucent mist,

      Diversely ting’d with rose and amethyst,

      Puzzled those eyes that for the centre sought;

      And scarcely for one moment could be caught

      His sluggish form reposing motionless.

      Those two on winged steeds, with all the stress

      Of vision search’d for him, as one would look

      Athwart the sallows of a river nook

      To catch a glance at silver throated eels,–

      Or from old Skiddaw’s top, when fog conceals

      His rugged forehead in a mantle pale,

      With an eye-guess towards some pleasant vale

      Descry a favourite hamlet faint and far.

      These raven horses, though they foster’d are

      Of earth’s splenetic fire, dully drop

      Their full-veined ears, nostrils blood wide, and stop;

      Upon the spiritless mist have they outspread

      Their ample feathers, are in slumber dead,–

      And on those pinions, level in mid air,

      Endymion sleepeth and the lady fair.

      Slowly they sail, slowly as icy isle

      Upon a calm sea drifting: and meanwhile

      The mournful wanderer dreams. Behold! he walks

      On heaven’s pavement; brotherly he talks To divine powers: from his hand full fain

      Juno’s proud birds are pecking pearly grain:

      He tries the nerve of Phœbus’ golden bow,

      And asketh where the golden apples grow:

      Upon his arm he braces Pallas’ shield,

      And strives in vain to unsettle and wield

      A Jovian thunderbolt: arch Hebe brings

      A full-brimm’d goblet, dances lightly, sings

      And tantalizes long; at last he drinks,

      And lost in pleasure at her feet he sinks, Touching with dazzled lips her starlight hand.

      He blows a bugle,–an ethereal band

      Are visible above: the Seasons four,–

      Green-kyrtled Spring, flush Summer, golden store

      In Autumn’s sickle, Winter frosty hoar,

      Join dance with shadowy Hours; while still the blast,

      In swells unmitigated, still doth last

      To sway their floating morris. “Whose is this?

      Whose bugle?” he inquires: they smile–”O Dis!

      Why is this mortal here? Dost

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