Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/283

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More parching to the tongue than all, of more divine a smart, When weary steps forget themselves upon a pleasant turf, Upon hot sand, or flinty road, or sea-shore iron surf, Towards the castle or the cot, where long ago was born One who was great through mortal days, and died of fame unshorn. Light heather-bells may tremble then—but they are far away; Wood-lark may sing from sandy fern,—the Sun may hear his lay; Runnels may kiss the grass on shelves and shallows clear,— But their low voices are not heard, tho' come on travels drear; Blood-red the sun may set behind black mountain peaks, Blue tides may sluice and drench their time in caves and weedy creeks, Eagles may seem to sleep wing-wide upon the air, Ring-doves may fly convulsed across to some high cedared lair,— But the forgotten eye is still fast lidded to the ground, As Palmer's that with weariness mid-desert shrine hath found.

A such a time the soul's a child, in childhood is the brain, Forgotten is the worldly heart,—alone it beats in vain! Ay, if a madman could have leave to pass a healthful day,