Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/93



Her lips were all my own, and—ah, ripe sheaves Of happiness! ye on the stubble droop, But never may be garner'd. I must stoop My head, and kiss death's foot. Love! love, farewell! Is there no hope from thee? This horrid spell Would melt at thy sweet breath.—By Dian's hind Feeding from her white fingers, on the wind I see thy streaming hair! and now, by Pan, I care not for this old mysterious man!"


 * He spake, and walking to that aged form,

Look'd high defiance. Lo! his heart 'gan warm With pity, for the gray-hair'd creature wept. Had he then wrong'd a heart where sorrow kept? Had he, though blindly cotnmelouscontumelious [sic], brought Rheum to kind eyes, a sting to human thought, Convulsions to a mouth of many years? He had in truth; and he was ripe for tears. The penitent shower fell, as down he knelt Before that care-worn sage, who trembling felt About his large dark locks, and faltering spake:


 * "Arise, good youth, for sacred Phœbus' sake!

I know thine inmost bosom, and I feel A very brother's yearning for thee steal Into mine own: for why? thou openest The prison-gates that have so long oppress'd My weary watching. Though thou know'st it not Thou art commission'd to this fatal spot For great enfranchisement. O weep no more!