Page:The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats, 1899.djvu/60

24 The face of Poesy: from off her throne

She overlook'd things that I scarce could tell.

The very sense of where I was might well

Keep Sleep aloof: but more than that there came

Thought after thought to nourish up the flame

Within my breast; so that the morning light

Surprised me even from a sleepless night;

And up I rose refresh'd, and glad, and gay,

Resolving to begin that very day

These lines; and howsoever they be done,

I leave them as a father does his son.

many a dreary hour have I past,

My brain bewilder'd, and my mind o'ercast

With heaviness; in seasons when I 've thought

No spherey strains by me could e'er be caught

From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze

On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays;

Or, on the wavy grass outstretch'd supinely,

Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely:

That I should never hear Apollo's song,

Though feathery clouds were floating all along

The purple west, and, two bright streaks between,

The golden lyre itself were dimly seen:

That the still murmur of the honey bee

Would never teach a rural song to me:

That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slanting

Would never make a lay of mine enchanting,

Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold

Some tale of love and arms in time of old.

But there are times, when those that love the bay,

Fly from all sorrowing far, far away;

A sudden glow comes on them, nought they see

In water, earth, or air, but poesy.

It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it,

(For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it,)

That when a Poet is in such a trance,

In air he sees white coursers paw and prance,

Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel,

Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel;

And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call,

Is the swift opening of their wide portal,

When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear,

Whose tones reach nought on earth but Poet's ear.

When these enchanted portals open wide,

And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide,

The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls,

And view the glory of their festivals:

Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem

Fit for the silv'ring of a seraph's dream;

Their rich brimm'd goblets, that incessant run

Like the bright spots that move about the sun;

And, when upheld, the wine from each bright jar

Pours with the lustre of a falling star.

Yet further off are dimly seen their bowers,

Of which no mortal eye can reach the flowers;

And 't is right just, for well Apollo knows

'T would make the Poet quarrel with the rose.

All that 's reveal'd from that far seat of blisses,

Is, the clear fountains' interchanging kisses,

As gracefully descending, light and thin,