Keats' Poems By John Keats The Eve of St. Agnes


    Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, —
    Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest be,
    He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute,
    In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans mercy:"
    Close to her ear touching the melody; —
    Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan:
    He ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly
    Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:
  Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.


    Her eyes were open, but she still beheld,
    Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep:
    There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd
    The blisses of her dream so pure and deep
    At which fair Madeline began to weep,
    And moan forth witless words with many a sigh;
    While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep;
    Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye,
  Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly.


    "Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now
    Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,
    Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;
    And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:
    How chang'd thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear!
    Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,
    Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!
    Oh leave me not in this eternal woe,
  For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go."


    Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far
    At these voluptuous accents, he arose,
    Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star
    Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose
    Into her dream he melted, as the rose
    Blendeth its odour with the violet, —
    Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows
    Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet
  Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set.


    'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet:
    "This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!"
    'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat:
    "No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine!
    Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. —
    Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring?
    I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine
    Though thou forsakest a deceived thing; —
  A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing."


    "My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride!
    Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest?
    Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and vermeil dyed?
    Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest
    After so many hours of toil and quest,
    A famish'd pilgrim, — saved by miracle.
    Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest
    Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well
  To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel."


    "Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land,
    Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:
    Arise — arise! the morning is at hand; —
    The bloated wassaillers will never heed: —
    Let us away, my love, with happy speed;
    There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, —
    Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead:
    Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be,
  For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee."


    She hurried at his words, beset with fears,
    For there were sleeping dragons all around,
    At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears —
    Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found. —
    In all the house was heard no human sound.
    A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door;
    The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,
    Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar;
  And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.


    They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;
    Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide;
    Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,
    With a huge empty flaggon by his side:
    The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,
    But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:
    By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide: —
    The chains lie silent on the footworn stones; —
  The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.


    And they are gone: ay, ages long ago
    These lovers fled away into the storm.
    That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe,
    And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form
    Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm,
    Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the old
    Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform;
    The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,
  For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold.

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