Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/Keats
KEATS.
The tall arched windows were flung open wide
To the cool night breeze. Not a shadow hung
Between the world without and he within—
It would have stifled him, his soul so gasped
And struggled for more breath—for room to be!
And with uneven steps treading in haste
Across the floor with moonlight carpeted,
He flung his arms out wildly, as if he
Would part the air pressing too hard around,
As if even space were palpable to him,
And weighed upon his spirit with a might
That crushed his soul like iron. All the while
The big drops of his anguish stood out thick
Upon his pale, broad forehead; and his lips
Was circled by a rim of ghastly white,
Like that about his eyes, betokening
How well-nigh had the struggle worn him out.
He walked and muttered to himself, and made
All passionate gestures forced by agony,
Till his first strength was spent, then flung him down,
And wept as woman weeps—a flood of tears.
Heaven sent us tears! How would the weak survive
When their great sorrows crush them, if their grief
Were softened by no weeping? Oh, thank God,
Who gives us tears for sorrow's medicine.
And by and by he rose upright, and stood
Once more in the full moonlight, pale and still,
A statue of sweet sorrow: his short curls
Dank and disheveled on his youthful brow;
And his eyes bright with moisture, and the light
Of an unquenchable spirit. Proudly thus,
With a half-conquered anguish at his heart,
He gave his sorrow vocal utterance:
What am I? a poet only,
A poor poet little gifted;
Yet this creature, low and lonely,
Once his passionate eyes hath lifted
In a love too fond and daring:
And for this great sin, O Heaven,
Be his punishment unsparing—
Be his foul heart stung and riven!
And this poet is ambitious—
Singing his own songs at pleasure—
Therefore for this wrong malicious,
The world hates him without measure.
O just world! O tender woman!
Would my heart like yours were iron!
But because God made it human,
All these woes its way environ.
Slighted love! and slighted labor!
Man who in dull hatred passeth
Unjust judgment on his neighbor,
Sorrow for himself amasseth,
And in turn is scorned and hunted;
But who breaks by many bruises
The proud heart to kindness wonted,
Knows his jest the world amuses.
Let me live to brook their smiling—
God! oh, let me live and strengthen;
I can bear their cold reviling,
Bear all, if my day thou lengthen.
All, I said—and yet my spirit
Fainteth at one burning vision—
One wild dream still haunting near it,
Sweet with love, mad with derision.
O she looked an angel shining
On me through her golden hair:
Her sweet eyes seemed aye divining
Some new beauty everywhere:
Smiling out so soft and kindly
On whate'er she looked upon;
Yet my soul but saw her blindly,
As if she had been the sun.
O the poet pines for beauty,
Yet he should not dare approach it!
Far-off worship is his duty:
E'en the idol would reproach it,
Were his wild devotion nearer;
Oftener for the brainless rover
Is reserved that other, dearer
Right to be the loved and lover.
Seeing her thus, why should I love her?
O it is that fatal sweetness,
Round about her and above her—
'Tis her beauty's full completeness
That for evermore deceives me,
Seeming like a soul outshining;
And this falsehood never leaves me,
But my fond soul still keeps pining.
O God! I am all unworthy,
Heart and mind are spent and wasted;
And this struggle with the earthy
Souls of men, my life hath blasted.
But I'll nerve me up to bear it—
Be a man with men contending;
Hug the mortal while I wear it,
And hope for a speedy ending.
In Rome are many ruins, and men come
To weep in pious sorrow o'er an arch
Fallen in fragments—to bewail the doom
Of broken marble, and to chide the march
Of pitiless time, who yearly covers o'er
With dust and ivy some affecting show
Of the decay of greatness—to deplore
A costly edifice's overthrow.
And some, a few, do rouse up the dead past,
And talk sublimely to the ancient ghosts
Of Cicero and Cæsar, with a vast
Amount of fancy which deserves their boasts.
The past is a great study—it is well!
Man should look backward to know where he is:
Then let the pilgrim court the awful spell—
A pensive, salutary joy is his.
But, O young poet, stay upon your round,
Your wandering feet beside a brother's tomb,
And gird your spirit up for slight and wound,
Lest, like the sleeper's, your soul sink in gloom.
A broken heart! ah, 'tis a bitter thing
To know the gentle in the world must die;
That man must steel his heart by force to wring
From his unfeeling fellow equity,
Or perish, name and fame, in calumny.
Each blessing has its bane, and thy complaining
Is that thy gifts are not unmixed with pain;
So finely strung thy heart-chords, some are straining,
And if they be but touched will snap in twain.
But oh, thy passionate love is not all slighted,
If from some heart o'erburdened like thine own—
Some fond, weak heart, by pain and passion blighted—
It wakes on chords long silent their last tone,
And brings back tears and gladness long unknown.