BEAUTY

JOHN KEATS

[From Endymion, 1818]

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever;
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing

A flowery band to bind us to the earth. Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the
moon,

Trees old and young, sprouting a shady

boon

For simple sheep; and such are daffodils With the green world they live in; and clear rills

That for themselves a cooling covert make 'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake, Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:

And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'er-
cast,

They always must be with us, or we die.

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

JOHN KEATS

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has wither'd 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.

I see a lily on thy brow

With anguish moist and fever dew, And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too.

"I met a lady in the meads,

Full beautiful-a fairy's child; Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild.

"I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan.

"I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long, For sideways would she lean, and sing A fairy's song.

"She found me roots of relish sweet,

And honey wild, and manna-dew, And sure in language strange she said'I love thee true.'

"She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she wept and sigh'd full sore, And there I shut her wild, wild eyes, With kisses four.

"And there she lullèd me asleep,

And there I dream'd-ah! woe betide!-The latest dream I ever dream'd On the cold hill's side.

"I saw pale kings and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried-'La Belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!'

"I saw their starved lips in the gloom, With horrid warning gapèd wide; And I awoke, and found me here

On the cold hill's side.

"And this is why I sojourn here, Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing."

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:

Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her
throne,

Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown

Through verdurous glooms and winding

mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the

boughs,

But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;

Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;

And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on sum

mer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain

To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!

No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was

heard

In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,

She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that ofttimes hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn.