Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/64



Him all in all unto her doting self. Who would not be so prison'd? but, fond elf He was content to let her amorous plea Faint through his careless arms; content to see An unseized heaven dying at his feet; Content, O fool! to make a cold retreat, When on the pleasant grass such love, lovelorn, Lay sorrowing; when every tear was born Of diverse passion; when her lips and eyes Were closed in sullen moisture, and quick sighs Came vex'd and pettish through her nostrils small Hush! no exclaim—yet, justly might'st thou call Curses upon his head.—I was half glad, But my poor mistress went distract and mad, When the boar tusk'd him: so away she flew To Jove's high throne, and by her plainings drew Immortal tear-drops down the thunderer's beard; Whereon, it was decreed he should be rear'd Each summer-time to life. Lo! this is he, That same Adonis, safe in the privacy Of this still region all his winter-sleep. Ay, sleep; for when our love-sick queen did weep Over his waned corse, the tremulous shower Heal'd up the wound, and, with a balmy power, Medicined death to a lengthen'd drowsiness: The which she fills with visions, and doth dress In all this quiet luxury; and hath set Us young immortals, without any let, To watch his slumber through. 'Tis wellnigh pass'd, Even to a moment's filling up, and fast She scuds with summer breezes, to pant through The first long kiss, warm firstling, to renew