Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/283

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More parching to the tongue than all, of more divine a smart,
When weary steps forget themselves upon a pleasant turf,
Upon hot sand, or flinty road, or sea-shore iron surf,
Towards the castle or the cot, where long ago was born
One who was great through mortal days, and died of fame unshorn.
 
Light heather-bells may tremble then—but they are far away;
Wood-lark may sing from sandy fern,—the Sun may hear his lay;
Runnels may kiss the grass on shelves and shallows clear,—
But their low voices are not heard, tho' come on travels drear;
Blood-red the sun may set behind black mountain peaks,
Blue tides may sluice and drench their time in caves and weedy creeks,
Eagles may seem to sleep wing-wide upon the air,
Ring-doves may fly convulsed across to some high cedared lair,—
But the forgotten eye is still fast lidded to the ground,
As Palmer's that with weariness mid-desert shrine hath found.

A such a time the soul's a child, in childhood is the brain,
Forgotten is the worldly heart,—alone it beats in vain!
Ay, if a madman could have leave to pass a healthful day,