825 Than speak against this ardent listless ness: Lies a deep hollow, from whose ragged brows For I have ever thought that it might bless 865 Bushes and trees do lean all round athwart outraught,1 And spreaded tail, a vulture could not glide Past them, but he must brush on every side. Some moulder'd steps lead into this cool Far as the slabbed margin of a well, sky. Oft have I brought thee flowers, on their stalks set Like vestal primroses, but dark velvet 875 Edges them round, and they have golden pits: 840 The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones, Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet, 880 If human souls did never kiss and greet.. "Now, if this earthly love has power to Men's being mortal, immortal; to shake 845 Ambition from their memories, and brim Their measure of content: what merest whim, Seems all this poor endeavor after fame, 850 Look not so wilder'd; for these things are And never can be born of atomies Leaving us fancy-sick. No, no, I'm sure, Unless it did, though fearfully, espy 860 Has made me scruple whether that same Was pass'd in dreaming. Hearken, sweet Beyond the matron-temple of Latona, 'Twas there I got them, from the gaps and Whence it ran brightly forth, and white did lave The nether sides of mossy stones and rock, 'Mong which it gurgled blythe adieus, to mock Its own sweet grief at parting. Overhead, Hung a lush screen of drooping weeds, and spread Thick, as to curtain up some woodnymph's home. "Ah! impious mortal, whither do I roam?" Said I, low-voic'd: "Ah, whither! 'Tis the grot Of Proserpine, when Hell, obscure and hot, Doth her resign; and where her tender hands She dabbles, on the cool and sluicy sands: Or 'tis the cell of Echo, where she sits, And dabbles thorough silence, till her wits Are gone in tender madness, and anon, Faints into sleep, with many a dying tone Of sadness. O that she would take my Vows, And breathe them sighingly among the boughs, To sue her gentle ears for whose fair head, Daily, I pluck sweet flowerets from their bed, 955 And weave them dyingly-send honeywhispers In pity of the shatter'd infant buds,That time thou didst adorn, with amber 960 studs, My hunting cap, because I laugh'd and Round every leaf, that all those gentle lispers May sigh my love unto her pitying! Stood stupefied with my own empty folly. choly. Salt tears were coming, when I heard my name Most fondly lipp'd, and then these accents came: "Endymion! the cave is secreter Than the isle of Delos. Echo hence shall stir No sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noise Of thy combing hand, the while it travelling cloys And trembles through my labyrinthine hair." 970 At that oppress'd I hurried in.-Ah! where Are those swift moments? Whither are Sorrow the way to death; but patiently Bear up against it: so farewell, sad sigh; 975 And come instead demurest meditation, To occupy me wholly, and to fashion My pilgrimage for the world's dusky brink. No more will I count over, link by link, My chain of grief: no longer strive to find 980 A half-forgetfulness in mountain wind Blustering about my ears: aye, thou shalt see, Dearest of sisters, what my life shall be; What a calm round of hours shall make my days. There is a paly flame of hope that plays 985 Where'er I look: but yet, I'll say 'tis 990 naught And here I bid it die. Have not I caught, years: For others, good or bad, hatred and tears 5 Have become indolent; but touching thine, One sigh doth echo, one poor sob doth pine, One kiss brings honey-dew from buried days. The woes of Troy, towers smothering o'er their blaze, Stiff-holden shields, far-piercing spears, keen blades, 10 Struggling, and blood, and shrieks-all dimly fades Into some backward corner of the brain; 15 Swart2 planet in the universe of deeds! Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds Along the pebbled shore of memory! Many old rotten-timber'd boats there be evil; causing blight 1 embrace Of the lone woodcutter; and listening still, Hour after hour, to each lush-leav'd rill. Now he is sittting by a shady spring, And elbow-deep with feverous fingering 55 Stems the upbursting cold: a wild rose tree Pavilions him in bloom, and he doth see A bud which snares his fancy: lo! but now 1 As Themistocles was presenting to his followers his plan of a naval attack against the Persians at the Battle of Salamis (480 B.C.), an owl alighted in the rigging of his ship. As the owl was sacred to Athena, the patroness of Athens, the incident was regarded as a good omen, and the plan was approved. See Plutarch's Life of Themistocles, 12. A reference to the poor success of Keats's first volume of poetry, published in 1817. inactivity He plucks it, dips its stalk in the water: how! It swells, it buds, it flowers beneath his sight; 60 And, in the middle, there is softly pight1 A golden butterfly; upon whose wings There must be surely character'd strange things, For with wide eye he wonders, and smiles oft. Lightly this little herald flew aloft, 65 Follow'd by glad Endymion's clasped hands: Onward it flies. From languor's sullen bands His limbs are loos 'd, and eager, on he hies Dazzled to trace it in the sunny skies. It seem'd he flew, the way so easy was; 70 And like a new-born spirit did he pass Through the green evening quiet in the sun, 100 It was a nymph uprisen to the breast 'Mong lilies, like the youngest of the brood. Too long, alas, hast thou starv'd on the ruth, 105 The bitterness of love: too long indeed, Seeing thou art so gentle. Could I weed Thy soul of care, by heavens, I would offer All the bright riches of my crystal coffer To Amphitrite; all my clear-eyed fish, 110 Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, O'er many a heath, through many a wood- 115 land dun, Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away. One track un Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws By my diligent springs; my level lilies, My charming rod, my potent river spells; To gladden thee; and all I dare to say, In other regions, past the scanty bar Until it reach'd a splashing fountain's side 130 85 That, near a cavern's mouth, forever pour'd Unto the temperate air: then high it soar'd, Why it is thus, one knows in heaven above: But, a poor Naiad, I guess not. Farewell! I have a ditty for my hollow cell." Hereat, she vanish'd from Endymion's |