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Between two hills. All hail, delightful

hopes !

As she was wont, th' imagination
Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone,
And they shall be accounted poet kings

Who simply tell the most heart - easing things.

O may these joys be ripe before I die.

270

Will not some say that I presumptuously Have spoken? that from hastening disgrace 'T were better far to hide my foolish face? That whining boyhood should with reverence bow

Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach?
How!

If I do hide myself, it sure shall be
In the very fane, the light of Poesy :
If I do fall, at least I will be laid
Beneath the silence of a poplar shade;
And over me the grass shall be smooth
shaven ;

And there shall be a kind memorial graven.

280

But off, Despondence! miserable bane ! They should not know thee, who athirst to gain

A noble end, are thirsty every hour.
What though I am not wealthy in the dower
Of spanning wisdom; though I do not know
The shiftings of the mighty winds that
blow

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Ah! rather let me like a madman run
Over some precipice; let the hot sun
Melt my Dædalian wings, and drive me
down

Convuls'd and headlong! Stay! an inward frown

Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile. An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle,

Spreads awfully before me. How much toil!

How many days! what desperate turmoil!
Ere I can have explored its widenesses.
Ah, what a task! upon my bended
knees,

I could unsay those-no, impossible!
Impossible!

310

For sweet relief I'll dwell On humbler thoughts, and let this strange

assay

Begun in gentleness die so away.

E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades : I turn full-hearted to the friendly aids That smooth the path of honour; brother

hood,

And friendliness the nurse of mutual good. Hither and thither all the changing The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant

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Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs ;

Many delights of that glad day recalling, When first my senses caught their tender falling.

330

Of vine leaves. Then there rose to view a fane

Of liny marble, and thereto a train Of nymphs approaching fairly o'er the sward:

And with these airs come forms of elegance One, loveliest, holding her white hand Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's

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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

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,

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Fly from all sorrowing far, far away;
A sudden glow comes on them, nought
they see

Thought after thought to nourish up the
flame
Within my breast; so that the morning In water, earth, or air, but poesy.

light

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Written according to George Keats at Margate, August, 1816, and included in the 1817 volume.

FULL 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

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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 eye

lids slanting

Would never make a lay of mine enchanting,

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, 30 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

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Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin, 50 When he upswimmeth from the coral caves, And sports with half his tail above the

waves.

These wonders strange he sees, and many

more,

Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore. Should be upon an evening ramble fare With forehead to the soothing breezes bare, Would he naught see but the dark, silent blue,

With all its diamonds trembling through and through?

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Or the coy moon, when in the waviness
Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress,
And staidly paces higher up, and higher,
Like a sweet nun in holiday attire ?

Ah, yes! much more would start into his sight

The revelries, and mysteries of night:

And should I ever see them, I will tell you Such tales as needs must with amazement spell you.

These are the living pleasures of the bard:

But richer far posterity's award.
What does he murmur with his latest breath,
While his proud eye looks through the film
of death?

70

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Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast,

Be lull'd with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu !

Thy dales and hills are fading from my view:

Swiftly I mount, upon wide-spreading pinions,

Far from the narrow bounds of thy dominions.

Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air, That my soft verse will charm thy daugh

ters fair,

And warm thy sons!' Ah, my dear friend and brother,

109

Could I, at once, my mad ambition smother, For tasting joys like these, sure I should be Happier, and dearer to society.

At times, 't is true, I've felt relief from

pain

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The first in the group of sonnets in the 1817 volume. A transcript by George Keats bears the date 'Margate, August, 1816.'

MANY the wonders I this day have seen: The sun, when first he kist away the tears That fill'd the eyes of morn; - the laurell'd peers

Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoy- Who from the feathery gold of evening

ment,

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There is no clue to the identity of the person addressed, and no date is affixed. It was published in the 1817 volume, and there follows the one addressed to his brother George.

HAD I a man's fair form, then might my sighs

Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell

Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well

Would passion arm me for the enterprise: But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;

No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell; I am no happy shepherd of the dell Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes.

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