POEMS WRITTEN LATE IN 1819

A PARTY OF LOVERS:

"A few Nonsense Verses" sent in a Letter to
George Keats.

PENSIVE they sit, and roll their languid eyes,
Nibble their toast and cool their tea with sighs;
Or else forget the purpose of the night,
Forget their tea, forget their appetite.

See, with cross'd arms they sit-Ah! happy crew,
The fire is going out and no one rings
For coals, and therefore no coals Betty brings.
A fly is in the milk-pot. Must he die
Circled by a humane society?

No, no; there, Mr. Werter takes his spoon,
Inserts it, dips the handle, and lo! soon
The little straggler, sav'd from perils dark,
Across the teaboard draws a long wet mark.

Romeo! Arise, take snuffers by the handle,
There's a large cauliflower in each candle.
A winding sheet-ah, me! I must away
To No. 7, just beyond the circus gay.
Alas, my friend, your coat sits very well;
Where may your Tailor live? I may not tell.
O pardon me. I'm absent now and then.
Where might my Tailor live? I say again
I cannot tell, let me no more be teazed;

10

20

He lives in Wapping, might live where he pleased.

SONNET.

THE day is gone, and all its sweets are gone! Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast, Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone,

Bright eyes, accomplish'd shape, and lang'rous waist!

Faded the flower and all its budded charms,

Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes, Faded the shape of beauty from my arms, Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradiseVanish'd unseasonably at shut of eve,

When the dusk holiday-or holinight

Of fragrant-curtain'd love begins to weave
The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight;
But, as I've read love's missal through to-day,
He'll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.

10

LINES TO FANNY.

WHAT can I do to drive away

Remembrance from my eyes? for they have seen,

Aye, an hour ago, my brilliant Queen!

Touch has a memory.

O say, love, say,

What can I do to kill it and be free

In my old liberty?

When every fair one that I saw was fair,
Enough to catch me in but half a snare,
Not keep me there:

When, howe'er poor or particolour'd things,
My muse had wings,

And ever ready was to take her course
Whither I bent her force,

Unintellectual, yet divine to me;

Divine, I say!-What sea-bird o'er the sea

Is a philosopher the while he goes

Winging along where the great water throes?

How shall I do

To get anew

10

Those moulted feathers, and so mount once more 20 Above, above

The reach of fluttering Love,

And make him cower lowly while I soar?
Shall I gulp wine? No, that is vulgarism,

A heresy and schism,

Foisted into the canon law of love;

3 The word and or but has probably dropped out after Aye.

No, wine is only sweet to happy men;
More dismal cares

Seize on me unawares,

Where shall I learn to get my peace again?
To banish thoughts of that most hateful land,
Dungeoner of my friends, that wicked strand
Where they were wreck'd and live a wrecked life;
That monstrous region, whose dull rivers pour,
Ever from their sordid urns unto the shore,
Unown'd of any weedy-haired gods;

Whose winds, all zephyrless, hold scourging rods,
Iced in the great lakes, to afflict mankind;
Whose rank-grown forests, frosted, black, and blind,
Would fright a Dryad; whose harsh herbag'd meads
Make lean and lank the starv'd ox while he feeds;
There bad flowers have no scent, birds no sweet song,
And great unerring Nature once seems wrong.

O, for some sunny spell

To dissipate the shadows of this hell!

Say they are gone, -with the new dawning light Steps forth my lady bright!

O, let me once more rest

My soul upon that dazzling breast!

30

43

Let once again these aching arms be plac'd,

50

The tender gaolers of thy waist!

And let me feel that warm breath here and there

To spread a rapture in my very hair,—

O, the sweetness of the pain!

Give me those lips again!

Enough! Enough! it is enough for me
To dream of thee!

33 Probably wrecked should be wretched.

35 Even seems a likelier initial word here than Ever.

42 The word bad before flowers is questionable. Keats may have got as far as bud with the word buds, and then decided for flowers (disyllable) and forgotten to strike out bud.

SONNET.

TO FANNY.

I CRY your mercy-pity-love!-aye, love!
Merciful love that tantalizes not,

One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love,
Unmask'd, and being seen-without a blot!
O let me have thee whole,-all-all-be mine!
That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest
Of love, your kiss,-those hands, those eyes divine,
That warm, white, lucent, million-pleasured breast,-
Yourself your soul-in pity give me all,

Withhold no atom's atom or I die,
Or living on perhaps, your wretched thrall,
Forget, in the mist of idle misery,
Life's purposes,-the palate of my mind.
Losing its gust, and my ambition blind!

10