Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/86

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Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping kine, Couch'd in thy brightness, dream of fields divine; Innumerable mountains rise, and rise, Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes; And yet thy benediction passeth not One obscure hiding-place, one little spot Where pleasure may be sent: the nested wren Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken, And from beneath a sheltering ivy leaf Takes glimpses of thee; thou art a relief To the poor patient oyster, where it sleeps Within its pearly house;—the mighty deeps, The monstrous sea is thine—the myriad sea! O Moon! far spooming Ocean bows to thee, And Tellus feels her forehead's cumbrous load.


 * Cynthia! where art thou now? What far abode

Of green or silvery bower doth enshrine Such utmost beauty? Alas, thou dost pine For one as sorrowful: thy cheek is pale For one whose cheek is pale: thou dost bewail His tears who weeps for thee! Where dost thou
 * sigh ?

Ah! surely that light peeps from Vesper's eye, Or, what a thing is love! 'Tis She, but lo! How changed, how full of ache, how gone in woe! She dies at the thinnest cloud; her loveliness Is wan on Neptune's blue: yet there's a stress Of love-spangles, just off yon cape of trees, Dancing upon the waves, as if to please The curly foam with amorous influence. O, not so idle! for down glancing thence,