Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/119

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Our spirits' wings: despondency besets Our pillows; and the fresh to-morrow morn Seems to give forth its light in very scorn Of our dull, uninspired, snail-paced lives. Long have I said, how happy he who shrives To thee! But then I thought on poets gone, And could not pray:—nor can I now—so on I move to the end in lowliness of heart.—


 * "Ah, woe is me! that I should fondly part

From my dear native land! Ah, foolish maid! Glad was the hour, when, with thee, myriads bade Adieu to Ganges and their pleasant fields! To one so friendless the clear freshet yields A bitter coolness; the ripe grape is sour: Yet I would have, great gods! but one short hour Of native air—let me but die at home."


 * Endymion to heaven's airy dome

Was offering up a hecatomb of vows, When these words reach'd him. Whereupon he bows His head through thorny-green entanglement Of underwood, and to the sound is bent, Anxious as hind towards her hidden fawn.


 * "Is no one near to help me? No fair dawn

Of life from charitable voice? No sweet saying To set my dull and sadden'd spirit playing! No hand to toy with mine? No lips so sweet That I may worship them? No eyelids meet To twinkle on my bosom? No one dies Before me, till from these enslaving eyes Redemption sparkles!—I am sad and lost."