Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends
Who vexes all the leaves of his Life's book
And robs his fair name of its maidenhood.
It is as if the rose should pluck herself
Or the ripe plum finger its misty bloom,
As if a clear Lake meddling with itself
Should cloud its clearness with a 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 by a fierce miscreed?
ANOTHER ON FAME
Fame like a wayward girl will still be coy
To those who woo her with too slavish knees
But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy
And dotes the more upon a heart at ease--
She is a Gipsy will not speak to those
Who have not learnt to be content without her,
A Jilt whose ear was never whisper'd close,
Who think they scandal her who talk about her--
A very Gipsy is she Nilus born,
Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar--
Ye lovesick Bards, repay her scorn for scorn,
Ye lovelorn Artists, madmen that ye are,
Make your best bow to her and bid adieu,
Then if she likes it she will follow you.
TO SLEEP
O soft embalmer of the still midnight
Shutting with careful fingers and benign
Our gloom-pleased eyes embowered from the light
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine--
O soothest sleep, if so it please thee close
In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes,
Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its dewy Charities.
Then save me or the passed day will shine
Upon my pillow breeding many woes.
Save me from curious conscience that still lords
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a Mole--
Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
And seal the hushed Casket of my soul.
The following Poem--the last I have written--is the first and the only one
with which I have taken even moderate pains. I have for the most part
dash'd off my lines in a hurry. This I have done leisurely--I think it
reads the more richly for it, and will I hope encourage me to write other
things in even a more peaceable and healthy spirit. You must recollect
that Psyche was not embodied as a goddess before the time of Apuleius the
Platonist who lived after the Augustan age, and consequently the Goddess
was never worshipped or sacrificed to with any of the ancient fervour--and
perhaps never thought of in the old religion--I am more orthodox than to
let a heathen Goddess be so neglected--
ODE TO PSYCHE
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-conched ear!
Surely I dreamt to-day; or did I see
The winged Psyche, with awaked eyes?
I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly,
And on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
Saw two fair Creatures couched side by side
In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring fan
Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran
A Brooklet scarce espied
'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,
Blue, freckle pink, and budded Syrian
They lay, calm-breathing on the bedded grass;
Their arms embraced and their pinions too;
Their lips touch'd not, but had not bid adieu,
As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,
And ready still past kisses to outnumber
At tender dawn of aurorian love.
The winged boy I knew:
But who wast thou O happy happy dove?
His Psyche true?
O latest born, and loveliest vision far
Of all Olympus' faded Hierarchy!
Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star,
Or Vesper amorous glow-worm of the sky;
Fairer than these though Temple thou hadst none,
Nor Altar heap'd with flowers;
Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan
Upon the midnight hours;
No voice, no lute, no pipe no incense sweet
From chain-swung Censer teeming--
No shrine, no grove, no Oracle, no heat
Of pale mouth'd Prophet dreaming!
O Bloomiest! 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 retir'd
From happy Pieties, thy lucent fans,
Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
I see, and sing by my own eyes inspired.
O let me be thy Choir and make a moan
Upon the midnight hours;
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
From swinged Censer teeming;
Thy Shrine, thy Grove, thy Oracle, thy heat
Of pale-mouth'd Prophet dreaming!
Yes, I will be thy Priest and build a fane
In some untrodden region of my Mind,
Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind.
Far, far around shall those dark cluster'd 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
With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain;
With buds and bells and stars without a name;
With all the gardener-fancy e'er could feign,
Who breeding flowers will never breed the same--
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
That shadowy thought can win;
A bright torch and a casement ope at night
To let the warm Love in.
Here endethe ye Ode to Psyche.
Incipit altera Sonneta
I have been endeavouring to discover a better Sonnet Stanza than we have.
The legitimate does not suit the language over well from the pouncing
rhymes--the other kind appears too elegiac--and the couplet at the end of
it has seldom a pleasing effect--I do not pretend to have succeeded--it
will explain itself.
If by dull rhymes our English must be chained,
And, like Andromeda, the sonnet sweet
Fetter'd, in spite of pained Loveliness;
Let us find out, if we must be constrain'd,
Sandals more interwoven and complete
To fit the naked foot of poesy;
Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress
Of every chord, and see what may be gain'd
By ear industrious, and attention meet;
Misers of sound and syllable, no less
Than Midas of his coinage, let us be
Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown,
So, if we may not let the muse be free,
She will be bound with Garlands of her own.
[May 3.]
This is the third of May, and everything is in delightful forwardness; the
violets are not withered before the peeping of the first rose. You must
let me know everything--how parcels go and come, what papers you have,
and what newspapers you want, and other things. God bless you, my dear
brother and sister.
Your ever affectionate Brother
JOHN KEATS.
XCIII.--TO FANNY KEATS.
Wentworth Place. Saturday Morn.
[_Postmark_, February 27, 1819.]
My dear Fanny--I intended to have not failed to do as you requested, and
write you as you say once a fortnight. On looking to your letter I find
there is no date; and not knowing how long it is since I received it I do
not precisely know how great a sinner I am. I am getting quite well, and
Mrs. Dilke is getting on pretty well. You must pay no attention to Mrs.
Abbey's unfeeling and ignorant gabble. You can't stop an old woman's
crying more than you can a Child's. The old woman is the greatest nuisance
because she is too old for the rod. Many people live opposite a
Blacksmith's till they cannot hear the hammer. I have been in Town for two
or three days and came back last night. I have been a little concerned at
not hearing from George--I continue in daily expectation. Keep on reading
and play as much on the music and the grassplot as you can. I should like
to take possession of those Grassplots for a Month or so; and send Mrs. A.
to Town to count coffee berries instead of currant Bunches, for I want you
to teach me a few common dancing steps--and I would buy a Watch box to
practise them in by myself. I think I had better always pay the postage of
these Letters. I shall send you another book the first time I am in Town
early enough to book it with one of the morning Walthamstow Coaches. You
did not say a word about your Chillblains. Write me directly and let me
know about them--Your Letter shall be answered like an echo.
Your affectionate Brother
JOHN ----.
XCIV.--TO FANNY KEATS.
Wentworth Place, March 13 [1819].
My dear Fanny--I have been employed lately in writing to George--I do not
send him very short letters, but keep on day after day. There were some
young Men I think I told you of who were going to the Settlement: they
have changed their minds, and I am disappointed in my expectation of
sending Letters by them.--I went lately to the only dance I have been to
these twelve months or shall go to for twelve months again--it was to our
Brother in law's cousin's--She gave a dance for her Birthday and I went
for the sake of Mrs. Wylie. I am waiting every day to hear from George--I
trust there is no harm in the silence: other people are in the same
expectation as we are. On looking at your seal I cannot tell whether it is
done or not with a Tassie--it seems to me to be paste. As I went through
Leicester Square lately I was going to call and buy you some, but not
knowing but you might have some I would not run the chance of buying
duplicates. Tell me if you have any or if you would like any--and whether
you would rather have motto ones like that with which I seal this letter;
or heads of great Men such as Shakspeare, Milton, etc.--or fancy pieces of
Art; such as Fame, Adonis, etc.--those gentry you read of at the end of
the English Dictionary. Tell me also if you want any particular Book; or
Pencils, or drawing paper--anything but live stock. Though I will not now
be very severe on it, remembering how fond I used to be of Goldfinches,
Tomtits, Minnows, Mice, Ticklebacks, Dace, Cock salmons and all the whole
tribe of the Bushes and the Brooks: but verily they are better in the
Trees and the water--though I must confess even now a partiality for a
handsome Globe of gold-fish--then I would have it hold 10 pails of water
and be fed continually fresh through a cool pipe with another pipe to let
through the floor--well ventilated they would preserve all their beautiful
silver and Crimson. Then I would put it before a handsome painted window
and shade it all round with myrtles and Japonicas. I should like the
window to open onto the Lake of Geneva--and there I'd sit and read all day
like the picture of somebody reading. The weather now and then begins to
feel like spring; and therefore I have begun my walks on the heath again.
Mrs. Dilke is getting better than she has been as she has at length taken
a Physician's advice. She ever and anon asks after you and always bids me
remember her in my Letters to you. She is going to leave Hampstead for the
sake of educating their son Charles at the Westminster School. We (Mr.
Brown and I) shall leave in the beginning of May; I do not know what I
shall do or where be all the next summer. Mrs. Reynolds has had a sick
house; but they are all well now. You see what news I can send you I
do--we all live one day like the other as well as you do--the only
difference is being sick and well--with the variations of single and
double knocks, and the story of a dreadful fire in the Newspapers. I
mentioned Mr. Brown's name--yet I do not think I ever said a word about
him to you. He is a friend of mine of two years' standing, with whom I
walked through Scotland: who has been very kind to me in many things when
I most wanted his assistance and with whom I keep house till the first of
May--you will know him some day. The name of the young Man who came with
me is William Haslam.