Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/54



Free from the smallest pebble-bead of doubt That he will seize on trickling honey-combs: Alas! he finds them dry; and then he foams, And onward to another city speeds. But this is human life: the war, the deeds, The disappointment, the anxiety, Imagination's struggles, far and nigh, All human; bearing in themselves this good That they are still the air, the subtle food, To make us feel existence, and to show How quiet death is. Where soil is men grow Whether to weeds or flowers; but for me, There is no depth to strike in: I can see Nought earthly worth my compassing; so stand Upon a misty, jutting head of land— Alone? No, no; and by the Orphean lute, When mad Eurydice is listening to't, I'd rather stand upon this misty peak, With not a thing to sigh for, or to seek, But the soft shadow of my thrice-seen love, Than be—I care not what. O meekest dove Of heaven! O Cynthia, ten-times bright and fair From thy blue throne, now filling all the air, Glance but one little beam of temper'd light Into my bosom, that the dreadful might And tyranny of love be somewhat scared! Yet do not so, sweet queen; one torment spared, Would give a pang to jealous misery, Worse than the torment's self: but rather tie Large wings upon my shoulders, and point out My love's far dwelling. Though the playful rout Of Cupids shun thee, too divine art thou,