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And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardours of rest and of love,
From the depth of heaven above,
As still as a brooding dove.
Thać orbed maiden, with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
Which only the angels hear,
The stars peep behind her and peer;
Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in
wind-built tent, Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.
I bind the sun's throne with the burning zone,
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ;
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
Over a torrent sea,
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march,
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
While the moist earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky:
I change, but I cannot die.
The pavilion of heaven is bare,
the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.
JOHN KEATS. Born 1796; Died 1820.
surgeon. He became an ardent student, and in classical
power which he possessed. His genius was fervent and luxuriant, but untrained. His early
death prevented his realising the promise given in the exquisite beauty of the poems he has left.
SEASon of mists and mellow fruitfulness !
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ; Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run: To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Spares the next swathe and all its twinèd flowers;
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they :
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft,
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies : And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER.
Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
western islands have I been
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne :
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific—and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmise
Silont, upon a peak in Darien.
ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET.
The poetry of earth is never dead :
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead: That is the Grasshopper's-he takes the lead
In summer luxury,-he has never done
With his delights, for when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never :
On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost, The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills. .