Page:The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats, 1899.djvu/157

Rh All is cold Beauty; pain is never done:

For who has mind to relish, Minos-wise,

The Real of Beauty, free from that dead hue

Sickly imagination and sick pride

Cast wan upon it! Burns! with honour due

I oft have honour'd thee. Great shadow, hide

Thy face; I sin against thy native skies.

thou craggy ocean pyramid!

Give answer from thy voice, the sea-fowls' screams!

When were thy shoulders mantled in huge streams?

When, from the sun, was thy broad forehead hid?

How long is 't since the mighty power bid

Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreams?

Sleep in the lap of thunder or sunbeams,

Or when gray clouds are thy cold coverlid.

Thou answer'st not; for thou art dead asleep;

Thy life is but two dead eternities—

The last in air, the former in the deep;

First with the whales, last with the eagle-skies—

Drown'd wast thou till an earthquake made thee steep,

Another cannot wake thy giant size.