Page:The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats, 1899.djvu/54

18

The last poem in the 1817 volume. Charles Cowden Clarke relates that 'it was in the library of Hunt's cottage, where an extempore bed had been put up for Keats on the sofa, that he composed the framework and many lines of this poem, the last sixty or seventy being an inventory of the art garniture of the room.' It may be assigned to the summer of 1816.

 As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete Was unto me, but why that I ne might Rest I ne wist, for there n' as erthly wight (As I suppose) had more of hertis ese Than I, for I n' ad sicknesse nor disese.

is more gentle than a wind in summer?

What is more soothing than the pretty hummer

That stays one moment in an open flower,

And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower?

What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowing

In a green island, far from all men's knowing?

More healthful than the leafiness of dales?

More secret than a nest of nightingales?

More serene than Cordelia's countenance?

More full of visions than a high romance?

What, but thee, Sleep? Soft closer of our eyes!

Low murmurer of tender lullabies!

Light hoverer around our happy pillows!

Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows!

Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses!

Most happy listener! when the morning blesses

Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes

That glance so brightly at the new sunrise.

But what is higher beyond thought than thee?

Fresher than berries of a mountain-tree?

More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal,

Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle?

What is it? And to what shall I compare it?

It has a glory, and nought else can share it:

The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy,

Chasing away all worldliness and folly:

Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder,

Or the low rumblings earth's regions under;

And sometimes like a gentle whispering

Of all the secrets of some wond'rous thing

That breathes about us in the vacant air;

So that we look around with prying stare,

Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial limning;

And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymning;

To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended,

That is to crown our name when life is ended.

Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice,

And from the heart up-springs, rejoice! rejoice!

Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things,

And die away in ardent mutterings.

No one who once the glorious sun has seen,

And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean

For his great Maker's presence, but must know

What 't is I mean, and feel his being glow;

Therefore no insult will I give his spirit,

By telling what he sees from native merit.

O Poesy! for thee I hold my pen,

That am not yet a glorious denizen

Of thy wide heaven—should I rather kneel

Upon some mountain-top until I feel

A growing splendour round about me hung,

And echo back the voice of thine own tongue?

O Poesy! for thee I grasp my pen,

That am not yet a glorious denizen