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Where had he been, from whose warm

head outflew

That sweetest of all songs, that ever new, That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness, Coming ever to bless

The wanderer by moonlight? to him bringing

Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing

And turn'd to smile upon thy bashful eyes, Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize.

The evening weather was so bright, and clear,

That men of health were of unusual cheer; Stepping like Homer at the trumpet's call,

Or young Apollo on the pedestal:

From out the middle air, from flowery And lovely women were as fair and warm,

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SLEEP AND POETRY

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

Than wings of swans, than doves, than dimseen 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,

of this poem, the last sixty or seventy being Chasing away all worldliness and folly: Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder,

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.
CHAUCER.

WHAT is more gentle than a wind in summer?

Or the low rumblings earth's regions under;

And sometimes like a gentle whispering 29 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;

What is more soothing than the pretty And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard

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Vistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wander In happy silence, like the clear Meander Through its lone vales; and where I found a spot

Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot, Or a green hill o'erspread with chequer'd dress

Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness, Write on my tablets all that was permitted, All that was for our human senses fitted. Then the events of this wide world I'd seize

Like a strong giant, and my spirit tease Till at its shoulders it should proudly see Wings to find out an immortality.

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And can I ever bid these joys farewell? Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life, Where I may find the agonies, the strife Of human hearts: for lo! I see afar, O'er-sailing the blue cragginess, a car And steeds with streamy manes

charioteer

the

Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear: And now the numerous tramplings quiver

lightly

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Still downward with capacious whirl they glide;

And now I see them on a green-hill's side In breezy rest among the nodding stalks. The charioteer with wond'rous gesture talks

To the trees and mountains; and there soon appear

Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear,
Passing along before a dusky space
Made by some mighty oaks: as they would
chase

140

Some ever-fleeting music, on they sweep. Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep:

Some with upholden hand and mouth severe; Some with their faces muffled to the ear Between their arms; some, clear in youthful bloom,

Go glad and smilingly athwart the gloom; Some looking back, and some with upward gaze;

Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways Flit onward -now a lovely wreath of girls Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls; And now broad wings. Most awfully in

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Yet I rejoice: a myrtle fairer than E'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds A silent space with ever sprouting green. All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen,

Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering,

Nibble the little cuppèd flowers and sing. Then let us clear away the choking thorns From round its gentle stem; let the young fawns,

Yeaned in after-times, when we are flown, Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown With simple flowers: let there nothing be More boisterous than a lover's bended knee; Nought more ungentle than the placid look Of one who leans upon a closed book; Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopes

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