_Als writeth be of owenemes Hout bear the defects, Men han when sleep to coatien before thy waken in Bles Whaune thate hir frunder thinks hem bounds. In crimpede thonde faire undergrounde; (verso) 343 ODE TO FANNY I. PHYSICIAN Nature! let my spirit blood! O ease my heart of verse and let me rest; Throw me upon thy Tripod, till the flood Of stifling numbers ebbs from my full breast. I come-I see thee, as thou standest there, II. Ah! dearest love, sweet home of all my fears, As brilliant and as bright, As when with ravished, aching, vassal eyes, I gaze, I gaze! III. Who now, with greedy looks, eats up my feast? But, pr'ythee, do not turn The current of your heart from me so soon. O! save, in charity, The quickest pulse for me. IV. Save it for me, sweet love! though music breathe Voluptuous visions into the warm air; Though swimming through the dance's dangerous wreath, Be like an April day, Smiling and cold and gay, A temperate lilly, temperate as fair; A warmer June for me. I 8 not] probably a mistake for out. II 7 Lost in a soft amaze would be more Keats like. V. Why, this-you'll say, my Fanny! is not true: A feather on the sea, Sway'd to and fro by every wind and tide? As blow-ball from the mead? VI. I know it and to know it is despair To one who loves you as I love, sweet Fanny! Whose heart goes fluttering for you every where, Nor, when away you roam, Dare keep its wretched home, Love, love alone, his pains severe and many: From torturing jealousy. VII. Ah! if you prize my subdued soul above Or with a rude hand break The sacramental cake: Let none else touch the just new-budded flower; SONNET TO SLEEP O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight, Shutting, with careful fingers and benign, Our gloom-pleas'd eyes, embower'd 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, Sonnet 4 As wearisome as darkness is divine Dilke, draft. 6 My willing eyes in midst of this thine hymn Draft. Or wait the "Amen," ere thy poppy throws 10 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. SONG I. HUSH, hush! tread softly! hush, hush my dear! All the house is asleep, but we know very well That the jealous, the jealous old bald-pate may hear, Tho' you've padded his night-cap-O sweet Isabel! Tho' your feet are more light than a Fairy's feet, Who dances on bubbles where brooklets meet,Hush, hush! soft tiptoe! hush, hush my dear! For less than a nothing the jealous can hear. II. No leaf doth tremble, no ripple is there On the river, all's still, and the night's sleepy eye Closes up, and forgets all its Lethean care, Charm'd to death by the drone of the humming And the Moon, whether prudish or complaisant, No light in the dusk, no torch in the gloom, Sonnet 8 lulling Houghton: dewy G. Keats and Dilke, fair copy. 8-12 Its sweet-death dews o'er every pulse and limb— Then shut the hushed Casket of my soul And turn the key round in the oiled wards 12 From the west's shuddering bourn... Draft, rejected. |