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And diamonded with panes of quaint

device,

Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings;

And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,

And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,

A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings.

Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;

Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain;

Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray;

Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,

As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.

Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced,

Full on this casement shone the wintry Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress,

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And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced To wake into a slumberous tenderness; Which when he heard, that minute did he bless,

And breath'd himself: then from the closet crept,

Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,
And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stepped,
And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where,
lo! how fast she slept.

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The blisses of her dream so pure and deep I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine,

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ODE ON A GRECIAN URN THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme :

What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape

Of deities or mortals, or of both,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?

What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

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