Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/149

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To her for the last time. Night will strew On the damp grass myriads of lingering leaves, And with them shall I die; nor much it grieves To die, when summer dies on the cold sward. Why, I have been a butterfly, a lord Of flowers, garlands, love-knots, silly posies, Groves, meadows, melodies, and arbor-roses; My kingdom's at its death, and just it is That I should die with it: so in all this We miscall grief, bale, sorrow, heart-break, woe, What is there to plain of? By Titan's foe I am but rightly served." So saying, he Tripped lightly on, in sort of deathful glee; Laughing at the clear stream and setting sun, As though they jests had been: nor had he done His laugh at nature's holy countenance, Until that grove appear'd, as if perchance, And then his tongue with sober seemlyhed Gave utterance as he enter'd: "Ha!" he said, "King of the butterflies; but by this gloom, And by old Rhadamanthus' tongue of doom, This dusk religion, pomp of solitude, And the Promethean clay by thief endued, By old Saturnus' forelock, by his head Shook with eternal palsy, I did wed Myself to things of light from infancy; And thus to be cast out, thus lorn to die, Is sure enough to make a mortal man Grow impious." So he inwardly began On things for which no wording can be found; Deeper and deeper sinking, until drown'd Beyond the reach of music: for the choir