Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/45



Chattered with thee, and many days exiled All torment from my breast;—'twas even then, Straying about, yet, coop'd up in the den Of helpless discontent,—hurling my lance From place to place, and following at chance, At last, by hap, through some young trees it struck, And, plashing among bedded pebbles, stuck In the middle of a brook,—whose silver ramble Down twenty little falls through reeds and bramble, Tracing along, it brought me to a cave, Whence it ran brightly forth, and white did lave The nether sides of mossy stones and rock,— 'Mong which it gurgled blithe adieus, to mock Its own sweet grief at parting. Overhead, Hung a lush screen of drooping weeds, and spread Thick, as to curtain up some wood-nymph's home. 'A! impious mortal, whither do I roam!' Said I, low-voiced: 'Ah, whither! 'Tis the grot Of Proserpine, when Hell, obscure and hot, Doth her resign: and where her tender hands She dabbles on the cool and sluicy sands; Or 'tis the cell of Echo, where she sits, And babbles thorough silence, till her wits Are gone in tender madness, and anon, Faints into sleep, with many a dying tone Of sadness. O that she would take my vows, And breathe them sighingly among the boughs, To sue her gentle ears for whose fair head, Daily, I pluck sweet flowerets from their bed. And weave them dyingly—send honey-whispers Round every leaf, that all those gentle lispers May sigh my love unto her pitying!