Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/46



O charitable Echo! hear, and sing This ditty to her!—tell her'—So I stay'd My foolish tongue, and listening, half afraid, Stood stupefied with my own empty folly, And blushing for the freaks of melancholy. Salt tears were coming, when I heard my name Most fondly lipp'd, and then these accents came: 'Endymion! the cave is secreter Than the isle of Delos. Echo hence shall stir No sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noise Of thy combing hand, the while it travelling cloys And trembles through my labyrinthine hair.' At that oppress'd, I hurried in.—Ah! where Are those swift moments! Whither are they fled? I'll smile no more, Peona; nor will wed Sorrow, the way to death; but patiently Bear up against it: so farewell, sad sigh; And come instead demurest meditation, To occupy me wholly, and to fashion My pilgrimage for the world's dusky brink. No more will I count over, link by link, My chain of grief: no longer strive to find A half-forgetfulness in mountain wind Blustering about my ears: ay, thou shalt see, Dearest of sisters, what my life shall be; What a calm round of hours shall make my days. There is a paly flame of hope that plays Where'er I look: but yet, I'll say 'tis nought And here I bid it die. Have not I caught, Already, a more healthy countenance? By this the sun is setting; we may chance Meet some of our near-dwellers with my car."