Imatges de pÓgina
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Save it for me, sweet love ! though music

breathe Voluptuous visions into the warm air, Though swimming through the dance's dan

gerous wreath;
Be like an April day,

Smiling and cold and gay,
A temperate lily, temperate as fair;

Then, Heaven ! there will be
A warmer June for me.

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To George and Georgiana Keats, April 18 or 19, 1819, Keats writes: "The fifth canto of Dante pleases me more and more — it is that one in which he meets with Paolo and Fran

I had passed many days in rather a low state of mind, and in the midst of them I dreamt of being in that region of Hell. The dream was one of the most delightful enjoyments I ever had in my life. I floated about the whirling atmosphere, as it is described, with a beautiful figure, to whose lips mine were joined as it seemed for an age — and in the midst of all this cold and darkness I was warm

even flowery tree-tops sprung up, and we rested on them, sometimes with the lightness of a cloud, till the wind blew us away again. I tried a sonnet upon it — there are fourteen lines, but nothing of what I felt in it- that I could dream it every night.' Keats afterwards printed the sonnet in The Indicator for June 28, 1820.

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As Hermes once took to his feathers light, When lulled Argus, baffled, swoon'd and

slept So on a Delphic reed, my idle spright

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DUSKETHA

Let me to my glooms retire !

BREAMA

I to green-weed rivers bright !

SALAMANDER

Gentle Breama ! by the first
Violet young nature nurst,
I will bathe myself with thee,
So
you

sometime follow me
To my home, far, far, in west,
Far beyond the search and quest
Of the golden-browed sun.
Come with me, o'er tops of trees,
To my fragrant palaces,
Where they ever floating are
Beneath the cherish of a star
Call’d Vesper, who with silver veil
Ever hides his brilliance pale,
Ever gently-drowsed doth keep
Twilight for the Fays to sleep.
Fear not that your watery hair
Will thirst in drouthy ringlets there;
Clouds of stored summer rains
Thou shalt taste, before the stains
Of the mountain soil they take,
And too unlucent for thee make.
I love thee, crystal Faery, true !
Sooth I am as sick for you !

Happy, happy glowing fire !
Dazzling bowers of soft retire,
Ever let my nourish'd wing,
Like a bat's, still wandering,
Faintly fan your fiery spaces,
Spirit sole in deadly places.
In unhaunted roar and blaze,
Open eyes that never daze,
Let me see the myriad shapes
Of men, and beasts, and fish, and apes,
Portray'd in many a fiery den,
And wrought by spumy bitumen.
On the deep intenser roof,
Arched every way, aloof,
Let me breathe upon my skies,
And
anger

their live tapestries; Free from cold, and every care, Of chilly rain, and shivering air.

ΙΟ

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SALAMANDER

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Out, ye aguish Faeries, out!
Chilly lovers, what a rout

with
your

frozen breath, Colder than the mortal death. Adder-eyed Dusketha, speak, Shall we leave them, and go

seek In the earth's wide entrails old Couches warm as theirs is cold ? O for a fiery gloom and thee,

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Breathe upon them, fiery Spright !

ZEPHYR, BREAMA (to each other) Away! away to our delight !

II

SALAMANDER

Go, feed on icicles, while we Bedded in tongued flames will be.

DUSKETHA Lead me to these fev'rous glooms, Spright of Fire !

BREAMA

Me to the blooms, Blue eyed Zephyr of those flowers Far in the west where the May-cloud lowers: And the beams of still Vesper, where

winds are all whist, Are shed thro' the rain and the milder

mist, And twilight your floating bowers.

Ah! woe is me! poor silver-wing!

That I must chant thy lady's dirge, And death to this fair haunt of spring, Of melody, and streams of flowery

verge,

Poor silver-wing ! ah ! woe is me !

That I must see
These blossoms snow upon thy lady's pall !

Go, pretty page ! and in her ear
Whisper that the hour is near!

Softly tell her not to fear
Such calm favonian burial !

Go, pretty page! and soothly tell,

The blossoms hang by a melting spell, And fall they must, ere a star wink thrice

Upon her closed eyes, That now in vain are weeping their last

tears, At sweet life leaving, and those arbours

green, Rich dowry from the Spirit of the

Spheres,

Alas! poor Queen!

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FAERY SONGS

These two songs are given in Life, Letters and Literary Remains, but without date. It

are !

Ye Artists lovelorn! madmen that ye ON FAME

Make your best bow to her and bid adieu, 'You cannot eat your cake and have it too.' – Proverb.

Then, if she likes it, she will follow you. Sent with the next two to George and Georgiana Keats, April 30, 1819, and printed in Life, Letters and Literary Remains.

TO SLEEP How fever'd is that man, who cannot look O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight, Upon his mortal days with temperate Shutting, with careful fingers and benign, blood,

Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower'd from Who vexes all the leaves of his life's book,

the light, And robs his fair name of its maiden- Enshaded in forgetfulness divine: hood:

O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, It is as if the rose should pluck herself,

close, Or the ripe plum finger its misty bloom;

In midst of this thine hymn, my willing As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf,

eyes, Should darken her pure grot with muddy Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws gloom.

Around my bed its dewy charities; But the rose leaves herself upon

the brier, Then save me, or the passed day will For winds to kiss and grateful bees to

shine feed,

Upon my pillow, breeding many woes; And the ripe plum still wears its dim at- Save me from curious conscience, that tire,

still lords The undisturbed lake has crystal space: Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a Why then should man, teasing the mole; world for grace,

Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, Spoil his salvation for a fierce miscreed? And seal the hushed casket of my soul.

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ANOTHER ON FAME

ODE TO PSYCHE • The following poem

the last I have writFAME, like a wayward girl, will still be coy

ten is the first and only one with which I have To those who woo her with too slavish

taken even moderate pains. I have, for the knees,

most part, dashed off my lines in a hurry. This But makes surrender to some thoughtless I have done leisurely - I think it reads the more boy,

richly for it, and will I hope encourage me to And dotes the more upon a heart at ease; write other things in even a more pea able She is a Gipsy, — will not speak to those and healthy spirit. You must recollect that Who have not learnt to be content with- Psyche was not embodied as a goddess before out her;

the time of Apuleius the Platonist, who lived A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper'd

after the Augustan age, and consequently the close,

Goddess was never worshipped or sacrificed to

with any of the ancient fervour - and perhaps Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her;

never thought of in the old religion - I am

more orthodox than to let a heathen Goddess A very Gipsy is she, Nilus-born,

be so neglected.' Keats to his Brother and Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar;

Sister, April 30, 1819. He afterward included Ye lovesick Bards ! repay her scorn for the poem in his volume, Lamia, Isabella, The scorn;

Eve of St. Agnes and other Poems, 1820.

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