Thus on I thought, Until my head was dizzy and distraught. Leading the way, young damsels danced along, Bearing the burden of a shepherd song; Each having a white wicker over brimmd With Aprils tender younglings: next, well trimmd, A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looks As may be read of in Arcadian books; Such as sat listening round Apollos pipe, When the great deity, for earth too ripe, Let his divinity oer-flowing die In music, through the vales of Thessaly: Some idly trailed their sheep-hooks on the ground, And some kept up a shrilly mellow sound With ebon-tipped flutes: close after these, Now coming from beneath the forest trees, A venerable priest full soberly, Begirt with ministring looks: alway his eye Stedfast upon the matted turf he kept, And after him his sacred vestments swept. Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than Night-swollen mushrooms? Aye, he beheldPhoebe, his passion! In 1816 Keats became a licensed apothecary, but he never practiced his profession, deciding instead to write poetry. These raven horses, though they foster'd areOf earth's splenetic fire, dully dropTheir full-veined ears, nostrils blood wide, and stop;Upon the spiritless mist have they outspreadTheir ample feathers, are in slumber dead,--And on those pinions, level in mid air,Endymion sleepeth and the lady fair. When last the wintry gusts gave over strife With the conquering sun of spring, and left the skies Warm and serene, but yet with moistened eyes In pity of the shatter'd infant buds,-- That time thou didst adorn, with amber studs, My hunting cap, because I laugh'd and smil'd, Chatted with thee, and many days exil'd All torment from my breast;--'twas even then, Straying about, yet, coop'd up in the den Of helpless discontent,--hurling my lance From place to place, and following at chance, At last, by hap, through some young trees it struck, And, plashing among bedded pebbles, stuck In the middle of a brook,--whose silver ramble Down twenty little falls, through reeds and bramble, Tracing along, it brought me to a cave, Whence it ran brightly forth, and white did lave The nether sides of mossy stones and rock,-- 'Mong which it gurgled blythe adieus, to mock Its own sweet grief at parting.
They become the beauty they once observed. Moreover, through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul; And shaping visions all about my sight Of colours, wings, and bursts of spangly light; The which became more strange, and strange, and dim, And then were gulphd in a tumultuous swim: And then I fell asleep. The world is made lovely, liveable, and worthwhile because of the beauty that inhabits it. The pattern carries the reader from one line to the next as they become accustomed to what will come next. After them appeard, Up-followed by a multitude that reard Their voices to the clouds, a fair wrought car, Easily rolling so as scarce to mar The freedom of three steeds of dapple brown: Who stood therein did seem of great renown Among the throng. Yet dry them up, in bidding hence all fears That, any longer, I will pass my days Alone and sad.
Anon they wander'd, by divine converse, Into Elysium; vieing to rehearse Each one his own anticipated bliss. There lies a den,Beyond the seeming confines of the spaceMade for the soul to wander in and traceIts own existence, of remotest glooms. Another wishd, mid that eternal spring, To meet his rosy child, with feathery sails, Sweeping, eye-earnestly, through almond vales: Who, suddenly, should stoop through the smooth wind, And with the balmiest leaves his temples bind; And, ever after, through those regions be His messenger, his little Mercury. Now that he has laid out his beliefs about beauty he is ready to enter into the main theme of his narrative. Hereat Peona, in their silver source, Shut her pure sorrow drops with glad exclaim, And took a lute, from which there pulsing came A lively prelude, fashioning the way In which her voice should wander. Behold The clear religion of heaven! Ill smile no more, Peona; nor will wed Sorrow the way to death, but patiently Bear up against it: so farewel, sad sigh; And come instead demurest meditation, To occupy me wholly, and to fashion My pilgrimage for the worlds dusky brink.
On such a tranquil night as this, She woke Endymion with a kiss, When, sleeping in the grove, He dreamed not of her love. His youth was fully blown, Shewing like Ganymede to manhood grown; And, for those simple times, his garments were A chieftain kings: beneath his breast, half bare, Was hung a silver bugle, and between His nervy knees there lay a boar-spear keen. But there are Richer entanglements, enthralments far More self-destroying, leading, by degrees, To the chief intensity: the crown of these Is made of love and friendship, and sits high Upon the forehead of humanity. One felt heart-certain that he could not miss His quick gone love, among fair blossom'd boughs, Where every zephyr-sigh pouts and endows Her lips with music for the welcoming. O that she would take my vows, And breathe them sighingly among the boughs, To sue her gentle ears for whose fair head, Daily, I pluck sweet flowerets from their bed, And weave them dyinglysend honey-whispers Round every leaf, that all those gentle lispers May sigh my love unto her pitying! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth! He who diedFor soaring too audacious in the sun,Where that same treacherous wax began to run,Felt not more tongue-tied than Endymion.
Look not so wilder'd; for these things are true, And never can be born of atomies That buzz about our slumbers, like brain-flies, Leaving us fancy-sick. No, I will once more raise My voice upon the mountain-heights; once more Make my horn parley from their foreheads hoar: Again my trooping hounds their tongues shall loll Around the breathed boar: again Ill poll The fair-grown yew tree, for a chosen bow: And, when the pleasant sun is getting low, Again Ill linger in a sloping mead To hear the speckled thrushes, and see feed Our idle sheep. There curl'd a purple mist around them; soon,It seem'd as when around the pale new moonSad Zephyr droops the clouds like weeping willow:'Twas Sleep slow journeying with head on pillow. After graduating from Oxford, Wilde moved to London to pursue a literary career. Time, that aged nurse, Rockd me to patience.
Slowly she rose, as though she would have fled,While to his lady meek the Carian turn'd,To mark if her dark eyes had yet discern'dThis beauty in its birth--Despair! A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze, The odour of leaves, and. The very music of the name has gone Into my being, and each pleasant scene Is growing fresh before me as the green Of our own vallies: so I will begin Now while I cannot hear the city's din; Now while the early budders are just new, And run in mazes of the youngest hue About old forests; while the willow trails Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails Bring home increase of milk. In that which becks Our ready minds to fellowship divine, A fellowship with essence; till we shine, Full alchemiz'd, and free of space. Tell me thine ailment: tell me all amiss! Perhaps, the trembling knee And frantic gape of lonely Niobe, Poor, lonely Niobe! But no, like a spark That needs must die, although its little beam Reflects upon a diamond, my sweet dream Fell into nothing—into stupid sleep. Thus ended he, and both Sat silent: for the maid was very loth To answer; feeling well that breathed words Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps Of grasshoppers against the sun. Many upon thy death have ditties made;And many, even now, their foreheads shadeWith cypress, on a day of sacrifice. No, never moreShall airy voices cheat me to the shoreOf tangled wonder, breathless and aghast.
So be thou cheered sweet, And, if thy lute is here, softly intreat My soul to keep in its resolved course. Arous'd from this sad mood By one, who at a distance loud halloo'd, Uplifting his strong bow into the air, Many might after brighter visions stare: After the Argonauts, in blind amaze Tossing about on Neptune's restless ways, Until, from the horizon's vaulted side, There shot a golden splendour far and wide, Spangling those million poutings of the brine With quivering ore: 'twas even an awful shine From the exaltation of Apollo's bow; A heavenly beacon in their dreary woe. O comfortable bird, That broodest oer the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hushd and smooth! 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, In the first stanza of this piece the speaker is introducing the aspects of life and beauty that he is going to be discussing in depth in the following stanzas and books. Hushing signs she made, And breath'd a sister's sorrow to persuade A yielding up, a cradling on her care. One sigh of real breath--one gentle squeeze,Warm as a dove's nest among summer trees,And warm with dew at ooze from living blood! Why pierce high-fronted honour to the quick For nothing but a dream? Ever since, Endymion has been trying to find the goddess again. Or, on a moonless night,To tinge, on syren shores, the salt sea-spry? Hast thou sinn'd in aught Offensive to the heavenly powers? In Endymion, the title character also searches for the source of the joy and due to his discontentment he faces different situations.
Ye tender bibbers of the rain and dew,Young playmates of the rose and daffodil,Be careful, ere ye enter in, to fill Your baskets highWith fennel green, and balm, and golden pines,Savory, latter-mint, and columbines,Cool parsley, basil sweet, and sunny thyme;Yea, every flower and leaf of every clime,All gather'd in the dewy morning: hie Away! There never liv'd a mortal man, who bentHis appetite beyond his natural sphere,But starv'd and died. Her eloquence did breathe away the curse: She led him, like some midnight spirit nurse Of happy changes in emphatic dreams, Along a path between two little streams,-- Guarding his forehead, with her round elbow, From low-grown branches, and his footsteps slow From stumbling over stumps and hillocks small; Until they came to where these streamlets fall, With mingled bubblings and a gentle rush, Into a river, clear, brimful, and flush With crystal mocking of the trees and sky. Wilt be content to dwell with her, to shareThis sister's love with me? His father, William Wilde, was a surgeon, and his mother, Jane Francesca Wilde, published poetry under the name Speranza. The Lion's mane's on end: the Bear how fierce! Endymion is obviously depressed and tunes out of the conversation, becoming unresponsive to anyone or anything around him. The falling dew is cold and chill, And no bird sings in Arcady, The little fauns have left the hill, Even the tired daffodil Has closed its gilded doors, and still My lover comes not back to me.
From his right hand there swung a vase, milk-white, Of mingled wine, out-sparkling generous light; And in his left he held a basket full Of all sweet herbs that searching eye could cull: Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter still Than Ledas love, and cresses from the rill. And it had gloomy shades, sequestered deep, Where no man went; and if from shepherds keep A lamb strayed far a-down those inmost glens, Never again saw he the happy pens Whither his brethren, bleating with content, Over the hills at every nightfall went. After them appear'd, Up-followed by a multitude that rear'd Their voices to the clouds, a fair wrought car, Easily rolling so as scarce to mar The freedom of three steeds of dapple brown: Who stood therein did seem of great renown Among the throng. Thy mossy footstool shall the altar be'Fore which I'll bend, bending, dear love, to thee:Those lips shall be my Delphos, and shall speakLaws to my footsteps, colour to my cheek,Trembling or stedfastness to this same voice,And of three sweetest pleasurings the choice:And that affectionate light, those diamond things,Those eyes, those passions, those supreme pearl springs,Shall be my grief, or twinkle me to pleasure. Abbey, a prosperous tea broker, assumed the bulk of this responsibility, while Sandell played only a minor role. My sayings will the less obscured seem, When I have told thee how my waking sight Has made me scruple whether that same night Was pass'd in dreaming. In this ideal society, people are in touch with nature, with each other, and with their own emotions.
There anguish does not sting; nor pleasure pall:Woe-hurricanes beat ever at the gate,Yet all is still within and desolate. All its more ponderous and bulky worth Is friendship, whence there ever issues forth A steady splendour; but at the tip-top, There hangs by unseen film, an orbed drop Of light, and that is love: its influence, Thrown in our eyes, genders a novel sense, At which we start and fret; till in the end, Melting into its radiance, we blend, Mingle, and so become a part of it, Nor with aught else can our souls interknit So wingedly: when we combine therewith, Lifes self is nourishd by its proper pith, And we are nurtured like a pelican brood. Time, that aged nurse, Rock'd me to patience. His aged head, crowned with beechen wreath, Seemd like a poll of ivy in the teeth Of winter hoar. Rightly have they done: I, who still saw the horizontal sun Heave his broad shoulder o'er the edge of the world, Out-facing Lucifer, and then had hurl'd My spear aloft, as signal for the chace-- I, who, for very sport of heart, would race With my own steed from Araby; pluck down A vulture from his towery perching; frown A lion into growling, loth retire-- To lose, at once, all my toil breeding fire, And sink thus low! Are not our wide plains Speckled with countless fleeces? Caught A Paphian dove upon a message sent? Who thus were ripe for high contemplating, Might turn their steps towards the sober ring Where sat Endymion and the aged priest Mong shepherds gone in eld, whose looks increasd The silvery setting of their mortal star. Bewitch'd I sure must be,To lose in grieving all my maiden prime.