Page:The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats, 1899.djvu/178

142

fever'd is that man, who cannot look

Upon his mortal days with temperate blood,

Who vexes all the leaves of his life's book,

And robs his fair name of its maidenhood:

It is as if the rose should pluck herself,

Or the ripe plum finger its misty bloom;

As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf,

Should darken her pure grot with muddy gloom.

But the rose leaves herself upon the brier,

For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed,

And the ripe plum still wears its dim attire,

The undisturbed lake has crystal space:

Why then should man, teasing the world for grace,

Spoil his salvation for a fierce miscreed?

like a wayward girl, will still be coy

To those who woo her with too slavish knees,

But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy,

And dotes the more upon a heart at ease;

She is a Gipsy,—will not speak to those

Who have not learnt to be content without her;

A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper'd close,

Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her;

A very Gipsy is she, Nilus-born,

Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar;

Ye lovesick Bards! repay her scorn for scorn;

Ye Artists lovelorn! madmen that ye are!

Make your best bow to her and bid adieu,

Then, if she likes it, she will follow you.

embalmer of the still midnight,

Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,

Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower'd from the light,

Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:

O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,

In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes,

Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws

Around my bed its dewy charities;

Then save me, or the passed day will shine

Upon my pillow, breeding many woes;

Save me from curious conscience, that still lords

Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;

Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,

And seal the hushed casket of my soul.