Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/63



The breathless Latmian wonder'd o'er and o'er; Until impatient in embarrassment, He forthright pass'd, and lightly treading went To that same feather'd lyrist, who straightway, Smiling, thus whispered: "Though from upper day Thou art a wanderer, and thy presence here Might seem unholy, be of happy cheer! For 'tis the nicest touch of human honor, When some ethereal and high-favoring donor Presents immortal bowers to mortal sense; As now 'tis done to thee, Endymion. Hence Was I in no wise startled. So recline Upon these living flowers. Here is wine, Alive with sparkles—never, I aver. Since Ariadne was a vintager, So cool a purple: taste these juicy pears, Sent me by sad Vertumnus, when his fears Were high about Pomona: here is cream, Deepening to richness from, a snowy gleam; Sweeter than that nurse Amalthea skimm'd For the boy Jupiter: and here, undimm'd By any touch, a bunch of blooming plums Ready to melt between an infant's gums: And here is manna pick'd from Syrian trees, In starlight, by the three Hesperides. Feast on, and meanwhile I will let thee know Of all these things around us." He did so, Still brooding o'er the cadence of his lyre; And thus: "I need not any hearing tire By telling how the sea-born goddess pined For a mortal youth, and how she strove to bind