Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/132



Juno's proud birds are pecking pearly grain: He tries the nerve of Phœbus' golden bow, And asketh where the golden apples grow: Upon his arm he braces Pallas' shield, And strives in vain to unsettle and wield A Jovian thunderbolt: arch Hebe brings A full-brimm'd goblet, dances lightly, sings And tantalizes long; at last he drinks, And lost in pleasure, at her feet he sinks, Touching with dazzled lips her star-light hand, He blows a bugle,—an ethereal band Are visible above: the Seasons four,— Green-kirtled Spring, flush Summer, golden store In Autumn's sickle, Winter frosty hoar, Join dance with shadowy Hours; while still the blast, In swells unmitigated, still doth last To sway their floating morris. "Whose is this? Whose bugle?" he inquires: they smile—"O Dis! Why is this mortal here? Dost thou not know Its mistress' lips? Not thou?—'Tis Dian's: lo! She rises crescented?" He looks, 'tis she. His very goddess: good-bye earth, and sea, And air, and pains, and care, and suffering; Good-bye to all but love! Then doth he spring Towards her, and awakes—and, strange, o'erhead, Of those same fragrant exhalations bred, Beheld awake his very dream: the gods Stood smiling; merry Hebe laughs and nods; And Phœbe bends towards him crescented. O state perplexing! On the pinion bed, Too well awake, he feels the panting side Of his delicious lady. He who died