30

And ever watchful with fatigued eye; The last, whom I love more, the more of blame

Is heap'd upon her, maiden most unmeek,

I knew to be my demon1 Poesy.

They faded, and, forsooth! I wanted wings:

O folly! What is Love? and where is it?

And for that poor Ambition! it springs From a man's little heart's short feverfit;

35 For Poesy!-no,-she has not a joy,At least for me,-so sweet as drowsy

10

15

20

and

25

O shadows! 'twas a time to bid farewell! Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine.

And the harvest 's done.

I see a lily on thy brow,

With anguish moist and fever dew; And on thy cheek a fading rose

Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads

Full beautiful-a faery's child; Her hair was long, her foot was light. And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long;

For sideways would she lean, and sing A faery's song.

I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;3 She look'd at me as she did love,

And made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna dew; And sure in language strange she said, "I love thee true.''

How fever'd is the man, who cannot look Upon his mortal days with temperate blood,

Who vexes all the leaves of his life's book, And robs its fair name of its maidenhood; 5 It is as if the rose should pluck herself, Or the ripe plum finger its misty bloom, As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf, Should darken her pure grot with muddy gloom:

But the rose leaves herself upon the briar, 10 For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed, And the ripe plum still wears its dim attire, The undisturbed lake has crystal space, Why then should man, teasing the world for grace,

Spoil his salvation for a fierce miscreed ?1

ANOTHER ON FAME
1819
1848

Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy
To those who woo her with too slavish

knees,

But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy,

And dotes the more upon a heart at ease; 5 She is a Gipsy,-will not speak to those Who have not learnt to be content without

her;

A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper'd

close,

10

Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;

Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
And seal the hushed casket of my soul.

ODE TO PSYCHE 1819 1820

O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers,

wrung

By sweet enforcement and remembrance

dear,

And pardon that thy secrets should be sung

Even into thine own soft-conched1 ear: 5 Surely I dreamt today, or did I see

The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes! I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,

Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side

In deepest grass, beneath the whis

p'ring roof

Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran

A brooklet, scarce espied:

'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers fragranteyed,

Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,2 They lay calm-breathing on the bedded

grass;

Their arms embraced, and their pinions too;

Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade

adieu,

As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, And ready still past kisses to outnumber At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:

1 shell-shaped

2 with buds of Tyrian purple

Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet

From swinged censer teeming;

10

ness,

That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,

In some melodious plot

Of beechen green, and shadows number

less,

Singest of summer in full-throated

ease.

O for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,

Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!

Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.

50 Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane In some untrodden region of my mind, Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,

Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind.

Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees

55 Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;

And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds,

and bees,

The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to
sleep;

And in the midst of this wide quietness
A rosy sanctuary will I dress

60 With the wreath'd trellis of a working

brain,

20

25

Full of the true, the blushful Hippo

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,

In ancient days by emperor and clown:

Of his great summoner, and made retreat Into a forest on the shores of Crete.

For somewhere in that sacred island dwelt A nymph, to whom all hoofed Satyrs knelt;

15 At whose white feet the languid Tritons pour'd

Pearls, while on land they wither'd and ador'd.

Fast by the springs where she to bathe was wont,

And in those meads where sometime she might haunt,

Were strewn rich gifts, unknown to any Muse,

20 Though Fancy's casket were unlock'd to choose.

Ah, what a world of love was at her feet! So Hermes thought, and a celestial heat Burnt from his winged heels to either ear, That from a whiteness, as the lily clear, 25 Blush'd into roses 'mid his golden hair, Fallen in jealous curls about his shoulders bare.

From vale to vale, from wood to wood, he flew,

Breathing upon the flowers his passion

new,

And wound with many a river to its head, 30 To find where this sweet nymph prepar'd her secret bed:

In vain; the sweet nymph might nowhere be found,

And so he rested, on the lonely ground,
Pensive, and full of painful jealousies
Of the Wood-Gods, and even the very

trees.

35 There as he stood, he heard a mournful voice,

Such as once heard, in gentle heart, de

stroys

All pain but pity: thus the lone voice spake:

"When from this wreathed tomb shall I

awake!

When move in a sweet body fit for life, 40 And love, and pleasure, and the ruddy strife

Of hearts and lips! Ah, miserable me!"
The God, dove-footed, glided silently
Round bush and tree, soft-brushing, in
his speed,

The taller grasses and full-flowering weed, 45 Until he found a palpitating snake, Bright, and cirque-couchant1 in a dusky brake.

1 coiled