Erhalten Sie Zugang zu diesem und mehr als 300000 Büchern ab EUR 5,99 monatlich.
- Herausgeber: Musaicum Books
- Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
In 'The Complete Works of John Keats: Poems, Plays & Personal Letters', readers are given comprehensive access to the literary genius of John Keats. This collection includes Keats' famous poetry, such as 'Ode to a Nightingale' and 'Bright Star', as well as his lesser-known plays and personal letters. Keats' works showcase his mastery of Romantic poetry with themes of nature, beauty, and mortality. The book also provides insight into Keats' personal life, struggles, and relationships, adding depth to the understanding of his writing. Keats' lyrical and emotive style is sure to captivate readers, leaving them in awe of his poetic talent. The inclusion of his personal letters gives readers a glimpse into the mind of the poet and the influences behind his work. 'The Complete Works of John Keats' is a must-read for poetry enthusiasts, literature students, and anyone interested in the Romantic era. It offers a rich and immersive experience into the world of one of the greatest poets in literary history.
Sie lesen das E-Book in den Legimi-Apps auf:
Seitenzahl: 2577
Das E-Book (TTS) können Sie hören im Abo „Legimi Premium” in Legimi-Apps auf:
Ähnliche
The Complete Works of John Keats: Poems, Plays & Personal Letters
Published by
Books
Table of Contents
Poems:
Ode
Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth! Have ye souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new? Yes, and those of heaven commune With the spheres of sun and moon; With the noise of fountains wond’rous, And the parle of voices thund’rous; With the whisper of heaven’s trees And one another, in soft ease Seated on Elysian lawns Brows’d by none but Dian’s fawns Underneath large bluebells tented, Where the daisies are rose-scented, And the rose herself has got Perfume which on earth is not; Where the nightingale doth sing Not a senseless, tranced thing, But divine melodious truth; Philosophic numbers smooth; Tales and golden histories Of heaven and its mysteries.
Thus ye live on high, and then On the earth ye live again; And the souls ye left behind you Teach us, here, the way to find you, Where your other souls are joying, Never slumber’d, never cloying. Here, your earth-born souls still speak To mortals, of their little week; Of their sorrows and delights; Of their passions and their spites; Of their glory and their shame; What doth strengthen and what maim.
Ode on a Grecian Urn
1.
Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
2.
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
3.
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied, For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d, For ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
4.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.
5.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Ode to Apollo
In thy western halls of gold When thou sittest in thy state, Bards, that erst sublimely told Heroic deeds, and sang of fate, With fervour seize their adamantine lyres, Whose chords are solid rays, and twinkle radiant fires.
Here Homer with his nervous arms Strikes the twanging harp of war, And even the western splendour warms, While the trumpets sound afar: But, what creates the most intense surprise, His soul looks out through renovated eyes.
Then, through thy Temple wide, melodious swells The sweet majestic tone of Maro’s lyre: The soul delighted on each accent dwells, - Enraptur’d dwells, - not daring to respire, The while he tells of grief around a funeral pyre.
’Tis awful silence then again; Expectant stand the spheres; Breathless the laurell’d peers, Nor move, till ends the lofty strain, Nor move till Milton’s tuneful thunders cease, And leave once more the ravish’d heavens in peace.
Thou biddest Shakespeare wave his hand, And quickly forward spring The Passions - a terrific band - And each vibrates the string That with its tyrant temper best accords, While from their Master’s lips pour forth the inspiring words.
A silver trumpet Spenser blows, And, as its martial notes to silence flee, From a virgin chorus flows A hymn in praise of spotless Chastity. ’Tis still! Wild warblings from the Aeolian lyre Enchantment softly breathe, and tremblingly expire.
Next thy Tasso’s ardent numbers Float along the pleased air, Calling youth from idle slumbers, Rousing them from Pleasure’s lair: - Then o’er the strings his fingers gently move, And melt the soul to pity and to love.
But when Thou joinest with the Nine, And all the powers of song combine, We listen here on earth:
Ode to Fanny
I
Physician Nature! let my spirit blood! O ease my heart of verse and let me rest; Throw me upon thy Tripod, till the flood Of stifling numbers ebbs from my full breast. A theme! a theme! great nature! give a theme; Let me begin my dream. I come - I see thee, as thou standest there, Beckon me out into the wintry air.
II
Ah! dearest love, sweet home of all my fears, And hopes, and joys, and panting miseries. - Tonight, if I may guess, thy beauty wears A smile of such delight, As brilliant and as bright. As when with ravished, aching, vassal eyes, Lost in soft amaze, I gaze, I gaze!
III
Who now, with greedy looks, eats up my feast? What stare outfaces now my silver moon! Ah! keep that hand unravished at the least; Let, let, the amorous burn - But, pr’ythee, do not turn The current of your heart from me so soon O! save, in charity, The quickest pulse for me.
IV
Save it for me, sweet love! though music breathe Voluptuous visions into the warm air; Though swimming through the dance’s dangerous 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.
V
Why, this - you’ll say, my Fanny! is not true Put your soft hand upon your snowy side, Where the heart beats: confess - ’tis nothing new - Must not a woman be A feather on the sea, Sway’d to and fro by every wind and tide? Of as uncertain speed As blow-ball from the mead?
VI
I know it - and to know it is despair To one who loves you as I love, sweet Fanny! Whose heart goes fluttering for you everywhere, Nor, when away you roam, Dare keep its wretched home, Love, love alone, his pains severe and many: Then, loveliest! keep me free, From torturing jealousy.
VII
Ah! if you prize my subdued soul above The poor, the fading, brief, pride of an hour; Let none profane my Holy See of love, Or with a rude hand break The sacramental cake:
Ode on Indolence
I
They toil not, neither do they spin. One mom before me were three figures seen, With bowed necks, and joined hands, side-faced; And one behind the other stepp’d serene, In placid sandals, and in white robes graced; They pass’d, like figures on a marble urn, When shifted round to see the other side; They came again; as when the um once more Is shifted round, the first seen shades return; And they were strange to me, as may betide With vases, to one deep in Phidian lore.
II
How is it, Shadows! that I knew ye not? How came ye muffled in so hush a mask? Was it a silent deep-disguised plot To steal away, and leave without a task My idle days? Ripe was the drowsy hour; The blissful cloud of summer-indolence Benumb’d my eyes; my pulse grew less and less; Pain had no sting, and pleasure’s wreath no flower: O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense Unhaunted quite of all but - nothingness?
III
A third time pass’d they by, and, passing, tum’d Each one the face a moment whiles to me; Then faded, and to follow them I burn’d And ach’d for wings because I knew the three; The first was a fair Maid, and Love her name; The second was Ambition, pale of cheek, And ever watchful with fatigued eye; The last, whom I love more, the more of blame Is heap’d upon her, maiden most unmeek, - I knew to be my demon’ Poesy.
IV
They faded, and, forsooth! I wanted wings: O folly! What is love! and where is it? And for that poor Ambition! it springs From a man’s little heart’s short fever-fit; For Poesy! - no, - she has not a joy, - At least for me, - so sweet as drowsy noons, And evenings steep’d in honied indolence; O, for an age so shelter’d from annoy, That I may never know how change the moons, Or hear the voice of busy commonsense!
V
And once more came they by; - alas! wherefore? My sleep had been embroider’d with dim dreams; My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o’er With flowers, and stirring shades, and baffled beams: The morn was clouded, but no shower fell, Tho’ in her lids hung the sweet tears of May; The open casement press’d a new-leav’d vine, Let in the budding warmth and throstle’s lay; O Shadows! ’twas a time to bid farewell! Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine.
VI
So, ye three Ghosts, adieu! Ye cannot raise My head cool-bedded in the flowery grass; For I would not be dieted with praise, A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce! Fade softly from my eyes, and be once more In masque-like figures on the dreamy urn; Farewell! I yet have visions for the night,
Ode on Melancholy
1.
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; Make not your rosary of yew-berries, Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries; For shade to shade will come too drowsily, And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
2.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies; Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
3.
She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Ode to Psyche
O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, And pardon that thy secrets should be sung Even into thine own soft-conched ear: Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see The winged Psyche with awaken’d eyes? I wander’d in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side In deepest grass, beneath the whisp’ring roof Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran A brooklet, scarce espied: ‘Mid hush’d, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed, Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass; Their arms embraced, and their pinions too; Their lips touch’d not, but had not bade adieu, As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, And ready still past kisses to outnumber At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: The winged boy I knew; But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove? His Psyche true!
O latest born and loveliest vision far Of all Olympus’ faded hierarchy! Fairer than Phoebe’s sapphire-region’d star, Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, Nor altar heap’d with flowers; Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan Upon the midnight hours; No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet From chain-swung censer teeming; No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat Of pale-mouth’d prophet dreaming.
O brightest! though too late for antique vows, Too, too late for the fond believing lyre, When holy were the haunted forest boughs, Holy the air, the water, and the fire; Yet even in these days so far retir’d From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, Fluttering among the faint Olympians, I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. So let me be thy choir, and make a moan Upon the midnight hours; Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet From swinged censer teeming; Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Of pale-mouth’d prophet dreaming.
Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane In some untrodden region of my mind, Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: Far, far around shall those dark-cluster’d trees Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep; And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull’d to sleep; And in the midst of this wide quietness A rosy sanctuary will I dress With the wreath’d trellis of a working brain, With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, With all the gardener Fancy e’er could feign,
Ode to a Nightingale
1.
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: ’Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness, — That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
2.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
3.
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs, Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond tomorrow.
4.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
5.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves; And mid-May’s eldest child, The coming muskrose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
6.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — To thy high requiem become a sod.
7.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the selfsame song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that ofttimes hath Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
8.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Sonnet: When I have fears that I may cease to be
When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain, Before high-piled books, in charactery,’ Hold like rich gamers the full ripen’d grain; When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; And when I feel, fair creature of an hour, That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the faery power Of unreflecting love; - then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Sonnet on the Sonnet
If by dull rhymes our English must be chain’d, And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet Fetter’d, in spite of pained loveliness, Let us find out, if we must be constrain’d, Sandals more interwoven and complete To fit the naked foot of Poesy: Let us inspect the Lyre, and weigh the stress Of every chord, and see what may be gain’d By ear industrious, and attention meet; Misers of sound and syllable, no less Than Midas of his coinage, let us be Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown;
Sonnet to Chatterton
O Chatterton! how very sad thy fate! Dear child of sorrow - son of misery! How soon the film of death obscur’d that eye, Whence Genius mildly flash’d, and high debate. How soon that voice, majestic and elate, Melted in dying numbers! Oh! how nigh Was night to thy fair morning. Thou didst die A half-blown flow’ret which cold blasts amate. But this is past: thou art among the stars Of highest Heaven: to the rolling spheres Thou sweetly singest: naught thy hymning mars, Above the ingrate world and human fears. On earth the good man base detraction bars
Sonnet Written in Disgust of Vulgar Superstition
The church bells toll a melancholy round, Calling the people to some other prayers, Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares, More hearkening to the sermon’s horrid sound. Surely the mind of man is closely bound In some black spell; seeing that each one tears Himself from fireside joys, and Lydian airs, And converse high of those with glory crown’d. Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp, - A chill as from a tomb, did I not know That they are dying like an outburnt lamp; That ’tis their sighing, wailing ere they go Into oblivion; - that fresh flowers will grow,
Sonnet: Why did I laugh tonight? No voice will tell
Why did I laugh tonight? No voice will tell: No God, no Demon of severe response, Deigns to reply from heaven or from hell. Then to my human heart I turn at once. Heart! Thou and I are here sad and alone; I say, why did I laugh! O mortal pain! O Darkness! Darkness! ever must I moan, To question Heaven and Hell and Heart in vain. Why did I laugh? I know this Being’s lease, My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads; Yet would I on this very midnight cease, And the world’s gaudy ensigns see in shreds; Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense indeed, But Death intenser - Death is Life’s high meed.
Sonnet to a Cat
Cat! who hast pass’d thy grand climacteric, How many mice and rats hast in thy days Destroy’d? - How many tit bits stolen? Gaze With those bright languid segments green, and prick Those velvet ears - but pr’ythee do not stick Thy latent talons in me - and upraise Thy gentle mew - and tell me all thy frays Of fish and mice, and rats and tender chick. Nay, look not down, nor lick thy dainty wrists - For all the wheezy asthma, - and for all Thy tail’s tip is nick’d off - and though the fists Of many a maid have given thee many a maul, Still is that fur as soft as when the lists
Sonnet Written upon the Top of Ben Nevis
Read me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loud Upon the top of Nevis, blind in mist! I look into the chasms, and a shroud Vapourous doth hide them, - just so much I wist Mankind do know of hell; I look o’erhead, And there is sullen mist, - even so much Mankind can tell of heaven; mist is spread Before the earth, beneath me, - even such, Even so vague is man’s sight of himself! Here are the craggy stones beneath my feet, - Thus much I know that, a poor witless elf, I tread on them, - that all my eye doth meet Is mist and crag, not only on this height, But in the world of thought and mental might!
Sonnet: This pleasant tale is like a little copse
Written at the end of “The Floure and the Lefe’
This pleasant tale is like a little copse: The honied lines do freshly interlace To keep the reader in so sweet a place, So that he here and there full-hearted stops; And oftentimes he feels the dewy drops Come cool and suddenly against his face, And by the wandering melody may trace Which way the tender-legged linnet hops. Oh! what a power hath white simplicity! What mighty power has this gentle story! I that for ever feel athirst for glory Could at this moment be content to lie Meekly upon the grass, as those whose sobbings
Sonnet - The Human Seasons
Four seasons fill the measure of the year; There are four seasons in the mind of man: He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear Takes in all beauty with an easy span: He has his Summer, when luxuriously Spring’s honied cud of youthful thought he loves To ruminate, and by such dreaming nigh His nearest unto heaven: quiet coves His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings He furleth close; contented so to look On mists in idleness - to let fair things Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Sonnet to Homer
Standing aloof in giant ignorance, Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades, As one who sits ashore and longs perchance To visit dolphin-coral in deep seas. So thou wast blind; - but then the veil was rent, For Jove uncurtain’d Heaven to let thee live, And Neptune made for thee a spumy tent, And Pan made sing for thee his forest-hive; Aye on the shores of darkness there is light, And precipices show untrodden green, There is a budding morrow in midnight, There is a triple sight in blindness keen; Such seeing hadst thou, as it once befell
Sonnet to a Lady Seen for a Few Moments at Vauxhall
Time’s sea hath been five years at its slow ebb, Long hours have to and fro let creep the sand, Since I was tangled in thy beauty’s web, And snared by the ungloving of thine hand. And yet I never look on midnight sky, But I behold thine eyes’ well memory’d light; I cannot look upon the rose’s dye, But to thy cheek my soul doth take its flight. I cannot look on any building flower, But my fond ear, in fancy at thy lips And hearkening for a love-sound, doth devour Its sweets in the wrong sense: - Thou dost eclipse Every delight with sweet remembering,
Sonnet on Visiting the Tomb of Burns
The town, the churchyard, and the setting sun, The clouds, the trees, the rounded hills all seem, Though beautiful, cold - strange - as in a dream, I dreamed long ago, now new begun. The short-liv’d, paly summer is but won From winter’s ague, for one hour’s gleam; Though sapphire-warm, their stars do never beam: All is cold beauty; pain is never done: For who has mind to relish, Minos-wise, The real of beauty, free from that dead hue Sickly imagination and sick pride Cast wan upon it! Bums! with honour due I oft have honour’d thee. Great shadow, hide
Sonnet on Leigh Hunt’s Poem ‘The Story of Rimini’
Who loves to peer up at the morning sun, With half-shut eyes and comfortable cheek. Let him, with this sweet tale, full often seek For meadows where the little rivers run; Who loves to linger with that brightest one Of Heaven - Hesperus - let him lowly speak These numbers to the night, and starlight meek. Or moon, if that her hunting be begun. He who knows these delights, and too is prone To moralise upon a smile or tear, Will find at once a region of his own, A bower for his spirit, and will steer To alleys where the fir tree drops its cone,
Sonnet: A Dream, after Reading Dante’s Episode of Paulo and Francesco
As Hermes once took to his feathers light, When lulled Argus, baffled, swoon’d and slept, So on a Delphic reed, my idle spright So play’d, so charm’d, so conquer’d, so bereft The dragon-world of all its hundred eyes; And, seeing it asleep, so fled away - Not to pure Ida’ with its snow-cold skies, Nor unto Tempe where Jove griev’d a day; But to that second circle of sad hell, Where ‘mid the gust, the whirlwind, and the flaw Of rain and hailstones, lovers need not tell Their sorrows. Pale were the sweet lips I saw, Pale were the lips I kiss’d, and fair the form
Sonnet to Sleep
O soft embalmer of the still midnight, Shutting, with careful fingers and benign, Our gloom - pleas’d eyes, embower’d from the light, Enshaded in forgetfulness divine: O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes, Or wait the ‘Amen,’ ere thy poppy throws Around my bed its lulling charities. Then save me, or the passed day will shine Upon my pillow, breeding many woes, - Save me from curious conscience, that still lords Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole; Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
Sonnet Written in Answer to a Sonnet Ending thus:
Dark eyes are dearer far Than those that mock the hyacinthine bell!J. H. Reynolds
Blue! ’Tis the life of heaven, - the domain Of Cynthia, - the wide palace of the sun, - The tent of Hesperus, and all his train, - The bosomer of clouds, gold, grey and dun. Blue! Tis the life of waters: - Ocean And all its vassal streams, pools numberless, May rage, and foam, and fret, but never can Subside, if not to dark blue nativeness. Blue! Gentle cousin of the forest-green, Married to green in all the sweetest flowers, - Forget-me-not, - the bluebell, - and, that queen Of secrecy, the violet: what strange powers Hast thou, as a mere shadow! But how great,
Sonnet: After dark vapours have oppress’d our plains
After dark vapours have oppress’d our plains For a long dreary season, comes a day Born of the gentle South, and clears away From the sick heavens all unseemly stains. The anxious month, relieved of its pains, Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May; The eyelids with the passing coolness play Like rose leaves with the drip of summer rains. The calmest thoughts come round us; as of leaves Budding - fruit ripening in stillness - autumn suns Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves - Sweet Sappho’s cheek - a smiling infant’s breath - The gradual sand that through an hourglass runs - A woodland rivulet - a Poet’s death.
Sonnet to John Hamilton Reynolds
O that a week could be an age, and we Felt parting and warm meeting every week, Then one poor year a thousand years would be, The flush of welcome ever on the cheek: So could we live long life in little space, So time itself would be annihilate, So a day’s journey in oblivious haze To serve our joys would lengthen and dilate. O to arrive each Monday morn from Ind! To land each Tuesday from the rich Levant! In little time a host of joys to bind, And keep our souls in one eternal pant! This morn, my friend, and yester-evening taught
Sonnet on Sitting Down to Read King Lear Once Again
O golden tongued Romance, with serene lute! Fair plumed Syren, Queen of far-away! Leave melodising on this wintry day, Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute: Adieu! for, once again, the fierce dispute Betwixt damnation and impassion’d clay Must I burn through; once more humbly assay The bitter-sweet of this Shakespearian fruit: Chief Poet! and ye clouds of Albion, Begetters of our deep eternal theme! When through the old oak forest I am gone, Let me not wander in a barren dream, But, when I am consumed in the fire,
Sonnet: Before he went to feed with owls and bats
Before he went to feed with owls and bats Nebuchadnezzar had an ugly dream, Worse than an hus’if s when she thinks her cream Made a naumachia for mice and rats. So scared, he sent for that ‘Good King of Cats’ Young Daniel, who soon did pluck away the beam From out his eye, and said he did not deem The sceptre worth a straw - his cushions old door-mats. A horrid nightmare similar somewhat Of late has haunted a most motley crew, Most loggerheads and chapmen - we are told That any Daniel tho’ he be a sot Can make the lying lips turn pale of hue
Sonnet Written in the Cottage where Burns was Born
This mortal body of a thousand days Now fills, O Burns, a space in thine own room, Where thou didst dream alone on budded bays, Happy and thoughtless of thy day of doom! My pulse is warm with thine own barley-bree, My head is light with pledging a great soul, My eyes are wandering, and I cannot see, Fancy is dead and drunken at its goal; Yet can I stamp my foot upon thy floor, Yet can I ope thy window-sash to find The meadow thou hast tramped o’er and o’er, - Yet can I think of thee till thought is blind, - Yet can I gulp a bumper to thy name, - O smile among the shades, for this is fame!
Sonnet to the Nile
Son of the old moon-mountains African! Chief of the Pyramid and Crocodile! We call thee fruitful, and, that very while, A desert fills our seeing’s inward span; Nurse of swart nations since the world began, Art thou so fruitful? or dost thou beguile Such men to honour thee, who, worn with toil, Rest for a space ‘twixt Cairo and Decan? O, O may dark fancies err! they surely do; ’Tis ignorance that makes a barren waste Of all beyond itself, thou dost bedew Green rushes like our rivers, and dost taste The pleasant sunrise, green isles hast thou too,
Sonnet on Peace
O Peace! and dost thou with thy presence bless The dwellings of this war-surrounded Isle; Soothing with placid brow our late distress, Making the triple kingdom brightly smile? Joyful I hail thy presence; and I hail The sweet companions that await on thee; Complete my joy - let not my first wish fail, Let the sweet mountain nymph thy favourite be, With England’s happiness proclaim Europa’s Liberty. O Europe! let not sceptred tyrants see That thou must shelter in thy former state; Keep thy chains burst, and boldly say thou art free; Give thy kings law - leave not uncurbed the great;
Sonnet on Hearing the Bagpipe and
Seeing ‘The Stranger’ Played at Inverary Of late two dainties were before me plac’d Sweet, holy, pure, sacred and innocent, From the ninth sphere to me benignly sent That Gods might know my own particular taste: First the soft Bagpipe moum’d with zealous haste, The Stranger next with head on bosom bent Sigh’d; rueful again the piteous Bagpipe went, Again the Stranger sighings fresh did waste. O Bagpipe thou didst steal my heart away - O Stranger thou my nerves from Pipe didst charm - O Bagpipe thou didst reassert thy sway - Again thou Stranger gav’st me fresh alarm - Alas! I could not choose. Ah! my poor heart.
Sonnet: Oh! how I love, on a fair summer’s eve
Oh! how I love, on a fair summer’s eve, When streams of light pour down the golden west, And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest The silver clouds, far - far away to leave All meaner thoughts, and take a sweet reprieve From little cares; to find, with easy quest, A fragrant wild, with Nature’s beauty drest, And there into delight my soul deceive. There warm my breast with patriotic lore, Musing on Milton’s fate - on Sydney’s bier - Till their stern forms before my mind arise: Perhaps on wing of Poesy upsoar, Full often dropping a delicious tear,
Sonnet to Byron
Byron! how sweetly sad thy melody! Attuning still the soul to tenderness, As if soft Pity, with unusual stress, Had touch’d her plaintive lute, and thou, being by, Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer’d them to die. O’ershadowing sorrow doth not make thee less Delightful: thou thy griefs dost dress With a bright halo, shining beamily, As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil, Its sides are ting’d with a resplendent glow, Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail, And like fair veins in sable marble flow; Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale,
Sonnet to Spenser
Spenser! a jealous honourer of thine, A forester deep in thy midmost trees, Did last eve ask my promise to refine Some English that might strive thine ear to please. But Elfin Poet ’tis impossible For an inhabitant of wintry earth To rise like Phoebus with a golden quell Firewing’d and make a morning in his mirth. It is impossible to escape from toil O’ the sudden and receive thy spiriting: The flower must drink the nature of the soil Before it can put forth its blossoming: Be with me in the summer days and I
Sonnet: As from the darkening gloom a silver dove
As from the darkening gloom a silver dove Upsoars, and darts into the eastern light, On pinions that naught moves but pure delight, So fled thy soul into the realms above, Regions of peace and everlasting love; Where happy spirits, crown’d with circlets bright Of starry beam, and gloriously bedight, Taste the high joy none but the blest can prove. There thou or joinest the immortal quire In melodies that even heaven fair Fill with superior bliss, or, at desire Of the omnipotent Father, cleavest the air
Sonnet on the Sea
It keeps eternal whisperings around Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell Gluts twice ten thousand Caverns, till the spell Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound. Often ’tis in such gentle temper found, That scarcely will the very smallest shell Be mov’d for days from where it sometime fell, When last the winds of Heaven were unbound. Oh ye! who have your eyeballs vex’d and tir’d, Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea; Oh ye! whose ears are dinn’d with uproar rude, Or fed too much with cloying melody -
Sonnet to Fanny
I cry your mercy - pity - love! - aye, love! Merciful love that tantalises not, One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love, Unmask’d, and being seen - without a blot! O! let me have thee whole, - all - all - be mine! That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest Of love, your kiss, - those hands, those eyes divine, That warm, white, lucent, million-pleasured breast, - Yourself - your soul - in pity give me all, Withhold no atom’s atom or I die, Or living on perhaps, your wretched thrall, Forget, in the mist of idle misery, Life’s purposes, - the palate of my mind Losing its gust, and my ambition blind!
Sonnet to Ailsa Rock
Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid! Give answer from thy voice, the sea-fowls’ screams! When were thy shoulders mantled in huge streams? When, from the sun, was thy broad forehead hid? How long is’t since the mighty power bid Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreams? Sleep in the lap of thunder or sunbeams, Or when grey clouds are thy cold coverlid. Thou answer’st not; for thou art dead asleep; Thy life is but two dead eternities - The last in air, the former in the deep; First with the whales, last with the eagle-skies -
Sonnet on a Picture of Leander
Come hither all sweet maidens soberly, Down-looking aye, and with a chasten’d light, Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white, And meekly let your fair hands joined be, As if so gentle that ye could not see, Untouch’d, a victim of your beauty bright, Sinking away to his young spirit’s night, - Sinking bewilder’d ‘mid the dreary sea: ’Tis young Leander toiling to his death; Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary lips For Hero’s cheek, and smiles against her smile. O horrid dream! see how his body dips Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam awhile:
Translation from a Sonnet of Ronsard
Nature withheld Cassandra in the skies, For more adornment, a full thousand years; She took their cream of beauty’s fairest dyes, And shap’d and tinted her above all Peers’ Meanwhile Love kept her dearly with his wings, And underneath their shadow fill’d her eyes With such a richness that the cloudy Kings Of high Olympus utter’d slavish sighs. When from the heavens I saw her first descend, My heart took fire, and only burning pains, They were my pleasures - they my life’s sad end;
Lamia Part I
Upon a time, before the faery broods Drove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous woods, Before King Oberon’s bright diadem, Sceptre, and mantle, clasp’d with dewy gem, Frighted away the Dryads and the Fauns From rushes green, and brakes, and cowslip’d lawns, The ever-smitten Hermes empty left His golden throne, bent warm on amorous theft: From high Olympus had he stolen light, On this side of Jove’s clouds, to escape the sight Of his great summoner, and made retreat Into a forest on the shores of Crete. For somewhere in that sacred island dwelt A nymph, to whom all hoofed Satyrs knelt; At whose white feet the languid Tritons poured Pearls, while on land they wither’d and adored. Fast by the springs where she to bathe was wont, And in those meads where sometime she might haunt, Were strewn rich gifts, unknown to any Muse, Though Fancy’s casket were unlock’d to choose. Ah, what a world of love was at her feet! So Hermes thought, and a celestial heat Burnt from his winged heels to either ear, That from a whiteness, as the lily clear, Blush’d into roses ‘mid his golden hair, Fallen in jealous curls about his shoulders bare. From vale to vale, from wood to wood, he flew, Breathing upon the flowers his passion new, And wound with many a river to its head, To find where this sweet nymph prepar’d her secret bed: In vain; the sweet nymph might nowhere be found, And so he rested, on the lonely ground, Pensive, and full of painful jealousies Of the Wood-Gods, and even the very trees. There as he stood, he heard a mournful voice, Such as once heard, in gentle heart, destroys All pain but pity: thus the lone voice spake: “When from this wreathed tomb shall I awake! When move in a sweet body fit for life, And love, and pleasure, and the ruddy strife Of hearts and lips! Ah, miserable me!” The God, dove-footed, glided silently Round bush and tree, soft-brushing, in his speed, The taller grasses and full-flowering weed, Until he found a palpitating snake, Bright, and cirque-couchant in a dusky brake.
She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue, Vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue; Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard, Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barr’d; And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed, Dissolv’d, or brighter shone, or interwreathed Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries — So rainbow-sided, touch’d with miseries, She seem’d, at once, some penanced lady elf, Some demon’s mistress, or the demon’s self. Upon her crest she wore a wannish fire Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadne’s tiar: Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet! She had a woman’s mouth with all its pearls complete: And for her eyes: what could such eyes do there But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair? As Proserpine still weeps for her Sicilian air. Her throat was serpent, but the words she spake Came, as through bubbling honey, for Love’s sake, And thus; while Hermes on his pinions lay, Like a stoop’d falcon ere he takes his prey.
“Fair Hermes, crown’d with feathers, fluttering light, I had a splendid dream of thee last night: I saw thee sitting, on a throne of gold, Among the Gods, upon Olympus old, The only sad one; for thou didst not hear The soft, lute-finger’d Muses chaunting clear, Nor even Apollo when he sang alone, Deaf to his throbbing throat’s long, long melodious moan. I dreamt I saw thee, robed in purple flakes, Break amorous through the clouds, as morning breaks, And, swiftly as a bright Phoebean dart, Strike for the Cretan isle; and here thou art! Too gentle Hermes, hast thou found the maid?” Whereat the star of Lethe not delay’d His rosy eloquence, and thus inquired: “Thou smooth-lipp’d serpent, surely high inspired! Thou beauteous wreath, with melancholy eyes, Possess whatever bliss thou canst devise, Telling me only where my nymph is fled, — Where she doth breathe!” “Bright planet, thou hast said,” Return’d the snake, “but seal with oaths, fair God!” “I swear,” said Hermes, “by my serpent rod, And by thine eyes, and by thy starry crown!” Light flew his earnest words, among the blossoms blown. Then thus again the brilliance feminine: “Too frail of heart! for this lost nymph of thine, Free as the air, invisibly, she strays About these thornless wilds; her pleasant days She tastes unseen; unseen her nimble feet Leave traces in the grass and flowers sweet; From weary tendrils, and bow’d branches green, She plucks the fruit unseen, she bathes unseen: And by my power is her beauty veil’d 0 To keep it unaffronted, unassail’d By the love-glances of unlovely eyes, Of Satyrs, Fauns, and blear’d Silenus’ sighs. Pale grew her immortality, for woe Of all these lovers, and she grieved so I took compassion on her, bade her steep Her hair in weird syrops, that would keep Her loveliness invisible, yet free To wander as she loves, in liberty. Thou shalt behold her, Hermes, thou alone, If thou wilt, as thou swearest, grant my boon!” Then, once again, the charmed God began An oath, and through the serpent’s ears it ran Warm, tremulous, devout, psalterian. Ravish’d, she lifted her Circean head, Blush’d a live damask, and swift-lisping said, “I was a woman, let me have once more A woman’s shape, and charming as before. I love a youth of Corinth — O the bliss! Give me my woman’s form, and place me where he is. Stoop, Hermes, let me breathe upon thy brow, And thou shalt see thy sweet nymph even now.” The God on half-shut feathers sank serene, She breath’d upon his eyes, and swift was seen Of both the guarded nymph near-smiling on the green. It was no dream; or say a dream it was, Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream. One warm, flush’d moment, hovering, it might seem Dash’d by the wood-nymph’s beauty, so he burn’d; Then, lighting on the printless verdure, turn’d To the swoon’d serpent, and with languid arm, Delicate, put to proof the lythe Caducean charm. So done, upon the nymph his eyes he bent Full of adoring tears and blandishment, And towards her stept: she, like a moon in wane, Faded before him, cower’d, nor could restrain Her fearful sobs, self-folding like a flower That faints into itself at evening hour: But the God fostering her chilled hand, She felt the warmth, her eyelids open’d bland, And, like new flowers at morning song of bees, Bloom’d, and gave up her honey to the lees. Into the green-recessed woods they flew; Nor grew they pale, as mortal lovers do.
Left to herself, the serpent now began To change; her elfin blood in madness ran, Her mouth foam’d, and the grass, therewith besprent, Wither’d at dew so sweet and virulent; Her eyes in torture fix’d, and anguish drear, Hot, glaz’d, and wide, with lid-lashes all sear, Flash’d phosphor and sharp sparks, without one cooling tear. The colours all inflam’d throughout her train, She writh’d about, convuls’d with scarlet pain: A deep volcanian yellow took the place Of all her milder-mooned body’s grace; And, as the lava ravishes the mead, Spoilt all her silver mail, and golden brede; Made gloom of all her frecklings, streaks and bars, Eclips’d her crescents, and lick’d up her stars: So that, in moments few, she was undrest Of all her sapphires, greens, and amethyst, And rubious-argent: of all these bereft, Nothing but pain and ugliness were left. Still shone her crown; that vanish’d, also she Melted and disappear’d as suddenly; And in the air, her new voice luting soft, Cried, “Lycius! gentle Lycius!” — Borne aloft With the bright mists about the mountains hoar These words dissolv’d: Crete’s forests heard no more.
Whither fled Lamia, now a lady bright, A full-born beauty new and exquisite? She fled into that valley they pass o’er Who go to Corinth from Cenchreas’ shore; And rested at the foot of those wild hills, The rugged founts of the Peræan rills, And of that other ridge whose barren back Stretches, with all its mist and cloudy rack, South-westward to Cleone. There she stood About a young bird’s flutter from a wood, Fair, on a sloping green of mossy tread, By a clear pool, wherein she passioned To see herself escap’d from so sore ills, While her robes flaunted with the daffodils.
Ah, happy Lycius! — for she was a maid More beautiful than ever twisted braid, Or sigh’d, or blush’d, or on spring-flowered lea Spread a green kirtle to the minstrelsy: A virgin purest lipp’d, yet in the lore Of love deep learned to the red heart’s core: Not one hour old, yet of sciential brain To unperplex bliss from its neighbour pain; Define their pettish limits, and estrange Their points of contact, and swift counterchange; Intrigue with the specious chaos, and dispart Its most ambiguous atoms with sure art; As though in Cupid’s college she had spent Sweet days a lovely graduate, still unshent, And kept his rosy terms in idle languishment.
Why this fair creature chose so fairily 0 By the wayside to linger, we shall see; But first ’tis fit to tell how she could muse And dream, when in the serpent prison-house, Of all she list, strange or magnificent: How, ever, where she will’d, her spirit went; Whether to faint Elysium, or where Down through tress-lifting waves the Nereids fair Wind into Thetis’ bower by many a pearly stair; Or where God Bacchus drains his cups divine, Stretch’d out, at ease, beneath a glutinous pine; Or where in Pluto’s gardens palatine Mulciber’s columns gleam in far piazzian line. And sometimes into cities she would send Her dream, with feast and rioting to blend; And once, while among mortals dreaming thus, She saw the young Corinthian Lycius Charioting foremost in the envious race, Like a young Jove with calm uneager face, And fell into a swooning love of him. Now on the moth-time of that evening dim He would return that way, as well she knew, To Corinth from the shore; for freshly blew The eastern soft wind, and his galley now Grated the quaystones with her brazen prow In port Cenchreas, from Egina isle Fresh anchor’d; whither he had been awhile To sacrifice to Jove, whose temple there Waits with high marble doors for blood and incense rare. Jove heard his vows, and better’d his desire; For by some freakful chance he made retire From his companions, and set forth to walk, Perhaps grown wearied of their Corinth talk: Over the solitary hills he fared, Thoughtless at first, but ere eve’s star appeared His phantasy was lost, where reason fades, In the calm’d twilight of Platonic shades. Lamia beheld him coming, near, more near — Close to her passing, in indifference drear, His silent sandals swept the mossy green; So neighbour’d to him, and yet so unseen She stood: he pass’d, shut up in mysteries, His mind wrapp’d like his mantle, while her eyes
