Page:The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats, 1899.djvu/39

Rh Heavens! how desperately do I adore

Thy winning graces;—to be thy defender

I hotly burn—to be a Calidore—

A very Red Cross Knight—a stout Leander—

Might I be loved by thee like these of yore.

Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair;

Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and creamy breast,

Are things on which the dazzled senses rest

Till the fond, fixed eyes, forget they stare.

From such fine pictures, heavens! I cannot dare

To turn my admiration, though unpossess'd

They be of what is worthy,—though not drest

In lovely modesty, and virtues rare.

Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark;

These lures I straight forget,—e'en ere I dine,

Or thrice my palate moisten: but when I mark

Such charms with mild intelligences shine,

My ear is open like a greedy shark,

To catch the tunings of a voice divine.

Ah! who can e'er forget so fair a being?

Who can forget her half-retiring sweets?

God! she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats

For man's protection. Surely the All-seeing,

Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing,

Will never give him pinions, who intreats

Such innocence to ruin,—who vilely cheats

A dove-like bosom. In truth there is no freeing

One's thoughts from such a beauty; when I hear

A lay that once I saw her hand awake,

Her form seems floating palpable, and near;

Had I e'er seen her from an arbour take

A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear,

And o'er my eyes the trembling moisture shake.

TO SOME LADIES

though while the wonders of nature exploring,

I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend;

Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring,

Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiast's friend:

Yet over the steep, whence the mountain-stream rushes,

With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove;

Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate gushes,

Its spray that the wild flower kindly bedews.

Why linger you so, the wild labyrinth strolling?

Why breathless, unable your bliss to declare?

Ah! you list to the nightingale's tender condoling,

Responsive to sylphs, in the moon-beamy air.