Page:The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats, 1899.djvu/279

Rh And O, and O

The daisies blow

And the primroses are waken'd,

And the violets white

Sit in silver plight,

And the green bud 's as long as the spike end.

Then who would go

Into dark Soho,

And chatter with dack'd hair'd critics,

When he can stay

For the new-mown hay,

And startle the dappled Prickets?

be ye going, you Devon Maid?

And what have ye there in the Basket?

Ye tight little fairy just fresh from the dairy,

Will ye give me some cream if I ask it?

I love your Meads, and I love your flowers,

And I love your junkets mainly,

But 'hind the door I love kissing more,

O look not so disdainly.

I love your hills, and I love your dales,

And I love your flocks a-bleating—

But O, on the heather to lie together,

With both our hearts a-beating!

I 'll put your Basket all safe in a nook,

Your shawl I hang up on the willow,

And we will sigh in the daisy's eye

And kiss on a grass green pillow.

me your patience, sister, while I frame

Exact in capitals your golden name;

Or sue the fair Apollo and he will

Rouse from his heavy slumber and instill

Great love in me for thee and Poesy.

Imagine not that greatest mastery

And kingdom over all the Realms of verse,

Nears more to heaven in aught, than when we nurse

And surety give to love and Brotherhood.

Anthropophagi in Othello's mood;

Ulysses storm'd and his enchanted belt

Glow with the Muse, but they are never felt

Unbosom'd so and so eternal made,

Such tender incense in their laurel shade

To all the regent sisters of the Nine

As this poor offering to you, sister mine.

Kind sister! ay, this third name says you are;

Enchanted has it been the Lord knows where;

And may it taste to you like good old wine,

Take you to real happiness and give

Sons, daughters and a home like honied hive.

Meg she was a Gipsy,

And liv'd upon the Moors:

Her bed it was the brown heath turf,

And her house was out of doors.

Her apples were swart blackberries,

Her currants pods o' broom;

Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,

Her book a churchyard tomb.

Her Brothers were the craggy hills,

Her Sisters larchen trees—

Alone with her great family

She liv'd as she did please.

No breakfast had she many a morn,

No dinner many a noon,

And 'stead of supper she would stare

Full hard against the Moon.

But every morn of woodbine fresh

She made her garlanding,

And every night the dark glen Yew

She wove, and she would sing.

And with her fingers old and brown

She plaited Mats o' Rushes,