Poems 1817

컔The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems 1817, by John Keats
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Title: Poems 1817
Author: John Keats
Release Date: June, 2005 [EBook #8209]?[This file was first posted on July 2, 2003]
Edition: 10
Language: English
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? START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, POEMS 1817 ***
E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram, Thierry A, David King, Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
POEMS 1817
by
JOHN KEATS
"What more felicity can fall to creature,?Than to enjoy delight with liberty."
Fate of the Butterfly.--SPENSER.
DEDICATION.
TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ.
Glory and loveliness have passed away;?For if we wander out in early morn,?No wreathed incense do we see upborne?Into the east, to meet the smiling day:?No crowd of nymphs soft voic'd and young, and gay,?In woven baskets bringing ears of corn,?Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn?The shrine of Flora in her early May.?But there are left delights as high as these,?And I shall ever bless my destiny,?That in a time, when under pleasant trees?Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free?A leafy luxury, seeing I could please?With these poor offerings, a man like thee.
[The Short Pieces in the middle of the Book, as well?as some of the Sonnets, were written at an earlier?period than the rest of the Poems.]
POEMS.
"Places of nestling green for Poets made."
STORY OF RIMINI.
I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,?The air was cooling, and so very still.?That the sweet buds which with a modest pride?Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,?Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems,?Had not yet lost those starry diadems?Caught from the early sobbing of the morn.?The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn,?And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept?On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept?A little noiseless noise among the leaves,?Born of the very sigh that silence heaves:?For not the faintest motion could be seen?Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green.?There was wide wand'ring for the greediest eye,?To peer about upon variety;?Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim,?And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim;?To picture out the quaint, and curious bending?Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending;?Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves,?Guess were the jaunty streams refresh themselves.?I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free?As though the fanning wings of Mercury?Had played upon my heels: I was light-hearted,?And many pleasures to my vision started;?So I straightway began to pluck a posey?Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy.
A bush of May flowers with the bees about them;?Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them;?And let a lush laburnum oversweep them,?And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them?Moist, cool and green; and shade the violets,?That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
A filbert hedge with wild briar overtwined,?And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind?Upon their summer thrones; there too should be?The frequent chequer of a youngling tree,?That with a score of light green brethen shoots?From the quaint mossiness of aged roots:?Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters?Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters?The spreading blue bells: it may haply mourn?That such fair clusters should be rudely torn?From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly?By infant hands, left on the path to die.
Open afresh your round of starry folds,?Ye ardent marigolds!?Dry up the moisture from your golden lids,?For great Apollo bids?That in these days your praises should be sung?On many harps, which he has lately strung;?And when again your dewiness he kisses,?Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses:?So haply when I rove in some far vale,?His mighty voice may come upon the gale.
Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight:?With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white,?And taper fulgent catching at all things,?To bind them all about with tiny rings.
Linger awhile upon some bending planks?That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks,?And watch intently Nature's gentle doings:?They will be found softer than ring-dove's cooings.?How silent comes the water round that bend;?Not the minutest whisper does it send?To the o'erhanging sallows: blades of grass?Slowly across the chequer'd shadows pass.?Why, you might