Page:The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats, 1899.djvu/177

Rh Dusketha, so enchantingly

Freckle-wing'd and lizard-sided!

By thee, Spright, will I be guided!

I care not for cold or heat;

Frost and flame, or sparks, or sleet,

To my essence are the same;—

But I honour more the flame.

Spright of fire, I follow thee

Wheresoever it may be;

To the torrid spouts and fountains,

Underneath earth-quaked mountains;

Or, at thy supreme desire,

Touch the very pulse of fire

With my bare unlidded eyes.

Sweet Dusketha! paradise!

Off, ye icy Spirits, fly!

Frosty creatures of the sky!

Breathe upon them, fiery Spright!

Away! away to our delight!

Go, feed on icicles, while we

Bedded in tongued flames will be.

Lead me to these fev'rous glooms,

Spright of Fire!

Me to the blooms,

Blue eyed Zephyr of those flowers

Far in the west where the May-cloud lowers:

And the beams of still Vesper, where winds are all whist,

Are shed thro' the rain and the milder mist,

And twilight your floating bowers.

no tear! O shed no tear!

The flower will bloom another year.

Weep no more! O weep no more!

Young buds sleep in the root's white core.

Dry your eyes! O dry your eyes,

For I was taught in Paradise

To ease my breast of melodies—

Shed no tear.

Overhead! look overhead

'Mong the blossoms white and red—

Look up, look up—I flutter now

On this flush pomegranate bough.

See me! 't is this silvery bill

Ever cures the good man's ill.

Shed no tear! O shed no tear!

The flower will bloom another year.

Adieu, Adieu—I fly, adieu,

I vanish in the heaven's blue—

Adieu, Adieu!

Ah! woe is me! poor silver-wing!

That I must chant thy lady's dirge,

And death to this fair haunt of spring,

Of melody, and streams of flowery verge,—

Poor silver-wing! ah! woe is me!

That I must see

These blossoms snow upon thy lady's pall!

Go, pretty page! and in her ear

Whisper that the hour is near!

Softly tell her not to fear

Such calm favonian burial!

Go, pretty page! and soothly tell,—

The blossoms hang by a melting spell,

And fall they must, ere a star wink thrice

Upon her closed eyes,

That now in vain are weeping their last tears,

At sweet life leaving, and those arbours green,—

Rich dowry from the Spirit of the Spheres,—

Alas! poor Queen!