Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/128




 * Thou art her mother,
 * And her brother,
 * Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade."


 * O what a sigh she gave in finishing.

And look, quite dead to every wordly thing! Endymion could not speak, but gazed on her: And listen'd to the wind that now did stir About the crisped oaks full drearlydrearily [sic], Yet with as sweet a softness as might be Remember'd from its velvet summer song. At last he said: "Poor lady! how thus long Have I been able to endure that voice? Fair Melody! kind Syren! I've no choice; I must be thy sad servant evermore: I cannot choose but kneel here and adore. Alas, I must not think—by Phœbe, no! Let me not think, soft Angel! shall it be so? Say, beautifullest, shall I never think? O thou couldst foster me beyond the brink Of recollection! make my watchful care Close up its bloodshot eyes, nor see despair! Do gently murder half my soul, and I Shall feel the other half so utterly!— I'm giddy at that cheek so fair and smooth; O let it blush so ever: let it soothe My madness! let it mantle rosy-warm With the tinge of love, panting in safe alarm. This cannot be thy hand, and yet it is; And this is sure thine other softling—this