Page:The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats, 1899.djvu/49

Rh But though I 'll gladly trace these scenes with thee,

Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,

Whose words are images of thoughts refin'd,

Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be

Almost the highest bliss of human-kind,

When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.

one who has been long in city pent,

'T is very sweet to look into the fair

And open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayer

Full in the smile of the blue firmament.

Who is more happy, when, with hearts content,

Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair

Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair

And gentle tale of love and languishment?

Returning home at evening, with an ear

Catching the notes of Philomel,—an eye

Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,

He mourns that day so soon has glided by:

E'en like the passage of an angel's tear

That falls through the clear ether silently.

late I rambled in the happy fields,

What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dew

From his lush clover covert;—when anew

Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields:

I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,

A fresh-blown musk-rose; 't was the first that threw

Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew

As is the wand that Queen Titania wields.

And, as I feasted on its fragrancy,

I thought the garden-rose it far excell'd:

But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me,

My sense with their deliciousness was spell'd:

Soft voices had they, that with tender plea

Whisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell'd.

how I love, on a fair summer's eve,

When streams of light pour down the golden west,

And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest

The silver clouds, far—far away to leave

All meaner thoughts, and take a sweet reprieve

From little cares; to find, with easy quest,

A fragrant wild, with Nature's beauty drest,

And there into delight my soul deceive.

There warm my breast with patriotic lore,

Musing on Milton's fate—on Sydney's bier—

Till their stern forms before my mind arise:

Perhaps on wings of Poesy upsoar,

Full often dropping a delicious tear,

When some melodious sorrow spells mine eyes.