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“My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely They glide, like phantoms, into the wide bride!

hall. Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? 335 Like phantoms to the iron porch they Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and ver

glide, meil dyed?

Where lay the porter, in uneasy sprawl, Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest With a huge empty Alagon by his side: After so many hours of toil and quest,

The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook A famished pilgrim, — saved by miracle.

his hide, Though I have found, I will not rob thy But his sagacious eye an inmate owns. nest

By one, and one, the bolts full easy siide; Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st The chains lie silent on the footworn well

stones: To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. The key turns, and the door upon its

hinges groans.

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LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

a

(1819)
O yhat can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

Alone and palely loitering?a
The sedge has withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,

And the harvest's done. kn
I see a lily on thy brow,

With anguish moist and fever-dew;£ 10
And on thy cheek a fading rose

Fast withereth too. c

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f

"I met a lady in the meads,

TO SLEEP Full beautiful — a faery's child; c

(1819) Her hair was long, her foot was light, 15 And her eyes were wild.

O soft embalmer of the still midnight,

Shutting, with careful fingers and benign, "I made a garland for her head, e

Our gloom-pleased eyes, embowered from

the light, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She looked at me as she did love,

Enshaded in forgetfulness divine: And made sweet moan.

O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, 20 close,

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In midst of this thine hymn, my willing "I set her on my pacing steed,

eyes, And nothing else saw all day long:

Or wait the Amen, ere thy poppy throws For sideways would she lean, and sing a

Around my bed its lulling charities. A faery's song. 9

Then save me, or the passed day will shine

Upon my pillow, breeding many woes "She found me roots of relish sweet, Save me from curious Conscience, that still

And honey wild, and manna-dew;, C hoards And sure in language strange she said, e Its strength for darkness, burrowing like 'I love thee true.'c

a mole;

Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, “She took me to her elfin grot,

And seal the hushed casket of my soul. And there she gazed, and sighed full

sore, And there I shut her wild wild eyes

ON FAME With kisses four.

(1819)

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wild

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How fevered 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 his fair name of its maiden-

hood:
It is as if the rose should pluck herself, 5
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, 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?

"I saw their starved lips in the gloam,

With horrid Warning gaped wide; a And I awoke, and found me here

On the cold hill's side.

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ODE TO PSYCHE

(1819)

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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-conchèd ear: Surely I dreamt today, or did I see

The winged Psyche with awakened eyes? I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with sur

prise, Saw two fair creatures, couched side by

side In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring

roof Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where

there ran
A brooklet, scarce espied.

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O brightest! though too late for antique

VOws, Too, too late for the fond believing lyre, When holy were the haunted forest

boughs, Holy the air, the water, and the fire! Yet even in these days so far retired

From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,

Fluttering among the faint Olympians, I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. So let me be thy choir, and make a moan Upon the midnight hours;

45 Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense

sweet From swinged censer teeming; Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat

Of pale mouthed prophet dreaming.

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V

'Mid hushed, cool-rooted flowers, fra

grant-eyed, Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, They'lay calm-breathing on the bedded

grass; Their arms embraced, and their pinions

too; Their lips touched 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. 20

The winged boy I knew;
But who wast thou, O happy, happy

dove?
His Psyche true!

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane

In some untrodden region of my mind, 51 Where branched thoughts, new grown with

pleasant pain, Instead of pines shall murmur in the

wind: Far, far around shall those dark-clustered

trees Fledge the wild-ridged mountains, steep

by steep; And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds,

and bees, The moss-lain dryads shall be lulled to

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

III

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With the wreathed trellis of a working Though winning near the goal — yet, do brain:

not grieve: With buds, and bells, and stars without She cannot fade, though thou hast not a name,

thy bliss, With all the gardener Fancy e'er could Forever wilt thou love, and she be feign,

fair! Who, breeding flowers, will never breed

the same. And there shall be for thee all soft delight Ah, happy, happy boughs, that cannot That shadowy thought can win,

shed A bright torch, and a casement ope at Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring night,

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adieu! To let the warm Love in!

And, happy melodist, unwearièd,

Forever piping songs forever new! ODE ON A GRECIAN URN

More happy love! more happy, happy

love! (1819)

Forever warm and still to be enjoyed, I

Forever panting, and forever young;

All breathing human passion far above, Thou still unravished bride of quietness,

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and Thou foster-child of silence and slow

cloyed, time,

A burning forehead, and a parching Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

tongue. A flowery tale more sweetly than our

rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy Who are these coming to the sacrifice? shape

5

To what green altar, O mysterious Of deities or mortals, or of both,

priest, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the What men or gods are these? What

skies, maidens loth?

And all her silken flanks with garlands What mad pursuit? What struggle to

drest? escape?

What little town by river or sea shore, 35 What pipes and timbrels? What wild

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, ecstasy?

Is emptied of this folk, this pious II

morn? Heard melodies are sweet, but those un And, little town, thy streets for evermore heard

Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Are sweeter: therefore, ye soft pipes, Why thou art desolate, can e'er replay on;

turn. Not to the sensual ear, but, more

deared, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone. O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst

Of marble men and maidens not leave

wrought, Thy song, nor ever can those trees be With forest branches and the trodden bare!

weed; Bold lover, never, never canst thou Thou, silent form, does tease us out of kiss,

thought

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over

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woe

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As doth eternity: cold pastoral!
When old age shall this generation

She dwells with Beauty, - Beauty that waste,

must die; Thou shalt remain, in midst of other

And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips

Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou

Turning to poison while the bee-mouth say'st,

sips. "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that

Ay, in the very temple of Delight 25 is all

Veiled Melancholy has her sovran Ye know on earth, and all ye need to

shrine, know.

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Though seen of none save him whose

strenuous tongue

Can burst Joy's grape against his palate ODE ON MELANCHOLY

fine: (1819)

His soul shall taste the sadness of her

might,

And be among her cloudy trophies No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist

hung. Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poison

ous wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE By nightshade, ruby grape of Proser

(1819) pine; Make not your rosary of yew-berries; Nor let the beetle nor the death-moth be | My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness Your mournful Psyche, the

pains downy owl

My sense, as though of hemlock I had A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;

drunk, For shade to shade will come too

Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains drowsily,

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had And drown the wakeful anguish of

sunk: the soul.

"Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, s But being too happy in thine happi

ness, But when the melancholy fit shall fall

That thou, light winged Dryad of the Sudden from heaven, like a weeping

trees, cloud,

In some melodious plot That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,

Of beechen green, and shadows numberAnd hides the green hills in an April

less, shroud:

Singest of summer in full-throated Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, 15 Or on the rainbow of the salt sand

II wave,

Or on the wealth of globèd peonies; O for a draught of vintage that hath been Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Cooled a long age in the deep-delved Emprison her soft hand, and let her

earth, rave,

Tasting of Flora and the country green, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless Dance, and Provençal song, and suneyes.

burnt mirth!

nor

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ease.

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