Or by the moon lifting her silver rim
Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim
Coming into the blue with all her light.
O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight
Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers;
Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers,
Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling
streams,

Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams, 120
Lover of loneliness, and wandering,

Of upcast eye, and tender pondering!
Thee must I praise above all other glo-
ries

That smile us on to tell delightful stories.
For what has made the sage or poet write
But the fair paradise of Nature's light?
In the calm grandeur of a sober line,
We see the waving of the mountain pine;
And when a tale is beautifully staid,
We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade: 130
When it is moving on luxurious wings,
The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings:
Fair dewy roses brush against our faces,
And flowering laurels spring from diamond

Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queen

prise,

seen!

As thou exceedest all things in thy shine, So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine. O for three words of honey, that I might Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night! 210

Where distant ships do seem to show their keels, Phoebus awhile delay'd his mighty wheels,

But the soft numbers, in that moment

SLEEP AND POETRY

The last poem in the 1817 volume. Charles Cowden Clarke relates that it was in the library of Hunt's cottage, where an extempore bed had been put up for Keats on the sofa, that he composed the framework and many lines of this poem, the last sixty or seventy being

an inventory of the art garniture of the room.' It may be assigned to the summer of 1816.

As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete
Was unto me, but why that I ne might
Rest I ne wist, for there n' as erthly wight
(As I suppose) had more of hertis ese
Than I, for I n' ad sicknesse nor disese.

CHAUCER.

WHAT is more gentle than a wind in summer ?

Than wings of swans, than doves, than dimseen eagle ?

What is it? And to what shall I compare it ?

It has a glory, and nought else can share it: The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy,

Chasing away all worldliness and folly: Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder,

Or the low rumblings earth's regions under;

And sometimes like a gentle whispering 29 Of all the secrets of some wond'rous thing That breathes about us in the vacant air; So that we look around with prying stare, Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial limning;

To woo sweet kisses from averted faces, — Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders white

Into a pretty shrinking with a bite
As hard as lips can make it: till agreed,
A lovely tale of human life we 'll read. 110
And one will teach a tame dove how it best
May fan the cool air gently o'er my rest;
Another, bending o'er her nimble tread,
Will set a green robe floating round her
head,

And still will dance with ever-varied ease,
Smiling upon the flowers and the trees:
Another will entice me on, and on
Through almond blossoms and rich cinna-

Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright eyes.

Still downward with capacious whirl they glide;

And now I see them on a green-hill's side In breezy rest among the nodding stalks. The charioteer with wond'rous gesture talks

To the trees and mountains; and there soon appear

Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear,
Passing along before a dusky space
Made by some mighty oaks: as they would
chase

140

Some ever-fleeting music, on they sweep. Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep:

Some with upholden hand and mouth severe; Some with their faces muffled to the ear Between their arms; some, clear in youthful bloom,

Go glad and smilingly athwart the gloom; Some looking back, and some with upward gaze;

Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways Flit onward -now a lovely wreath of girls Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls; And now broad wings. Most awfully intent

151

The driver of those steeds is forward bent, And seems to listen: O that I might know All that he writes with such a hurrying glow.

161