Few are there who escape these visitings, Perhaps one or two whose lives have patent wings, 20 And thro' whose curtains peeps no hellish nose, The mariners join hymn with those on land. Part of the building was a chosen See, Built by a banish'd Santon of Chaldee; The other part, two thousand years from him, Was built by Cuthbert de Saint Aldebrim; Then there's a little wing, far from the Sun, Built by a Lapland Witch turn'd maudlin Nun; And many other juts of aged stone Founded with many a mason-devil's groan. The doors all look as if they op'd themselves: The windows as if latch'd by Fays and Elves, 50 And from them comes a silver flash of light, As from the westward of a Summer's night; Or like a beauteous woman's large blue eyes Gone mad through olden songs and poesies. 60 O that our dreamings all, of sleep or wake, Beyond its proper bound, yet still confin'd, 80 Sent in a letter to Reynolds, dated January 31, 1818. 'I cannot write in prose,' says Keats; 'it is a sunshiny day and I cannot, so here goes.' HENCE Burgundy, Claret, and Port, Away with old Hock and Madeira, Too earthly ye are for my sport; There's a beverage brighter and clearer. Instead of a pitiful rummer, My wine overbrims a whole summer; And I drink at my eye, Till I feel in the brain A Delphian pain Then follow, my Caius ! then follow: On the green of the hill We will drink our fill Till our brains intertwine With the glory and grace of Apollo ! God of the Meridian, And of the East and West, To thee my soul is flown, And my body is earthward press'd. It is an awful mission, A terrible division; And leaves a gulf austere To be fill'd with worldly fear. Aye, when the soul is fled Affrighted do we gaze After its airy maze, And O, and O The daisies blow And the primroses are waken'd, And the violets white Sit in silver plight, And the green bud 's as long as the spike end. Then who would go Into dark Soho, And chatter with dack'd hair'd critics, When he can stay For the new-mown hay, And startle the dappled Prickets? THE DEVON MAID Immediately after the preceding, Keats adds: 'I know not if this rhyming fit has done anything-it will be safe with you if worthy to put among my Lyrics. Here's some doggrel for you,' and these four stanzas follow. WHERE be ye going, you Devon Maid? And what have ye there in the Basket? Ye tight little fairy just fresh from the dairy, Will ye give me some cream if I ask it? I love your Meads, and I love your flowers, I love your hills, and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleatingBut O, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating! I'll put your Basket all safe in a nook, Your shawl I hang up on the willow, And we will sigh in the daisy's eye And kiss on a grass green pillow. ACROSTIC: GEORGIANA AUGUSTA KEATS This is dated 'Foot of Helvellyn, June 27,' 1818, and was sent, as something overlooked, to his brother and sister, September 18, 1819. 'I wrote it in a great hurry which you will see. Indeed I would not copy it if I thought it would ever be seen by any but yourselves.' GIVE me your patience, sister, while I frame Exact in capitals your golden name; Or sue the fair Apollo and he will Rouse from his heavy slumber and instill There was a naughty boy And a naughty boy was he, He kept little fishes In washing tubs three Of the might Of the Maid, Nor afraid Of his Granny-good- By hook or crook To the brook, The size Of a nice Little Baby's O, he made, 'T was his trade, Of Fish a pretty Kettle A Kettle A Kettle |