‘They toil not, neither do they spin.’
|
I |
One morn before me were three figures
seen, |
With bowed
necks, and joined hands, side-faced ; |
And one behind the other stepp’d
serene, |
In placid
sandals, and in white robes graced ; |
They pass’d, like figures on a marble
urn, |
When shifted
round to see the other side ; |
They came again ; as when the urn once more |
Is shifted round, the first seen shades
return ; |
And they were
strange to me, as may betide |
With vases, to one deep in Phidian lore.
|
II |
How is it, Shadows ! that I knew ye not
? |
How came ye
muffled in so hush a mask ? |
Was it a silent deep-disguised plot |
To steal away,
and leave without a task |
My idle days ? Ripe was the drowsy hour
; |
The blissful
cloud of summer-indolence |
Benumb’d my eyes ; my pulse grew less and less ; |
Pain had no sting, and pleasure’s
wreath no flower : |
O, why did ye
not melt, and leave my sense |
Unhaunted quite of all but—nothingness ?
|
III |
A third time pass’d they by, and,
passing, turn’d |
Each one the
face a moment whiles to me ; |
Then faded, and to follow them I burn’d |
And ach’d for
wings because I knew the three ; |
The first was a fair Maid, and Love her
name ; |
The second was
Ambition, pale of cheek, |
And ever watchful with fatigued eye ; |
The last, whom I love more, the more of
blame |
Is heap’d upon
her, maiden most unmeek,— |
I knew to be my demon Poesy.
|
IV |
They faded, and, forsooth ! I wanted
wings : |
O folly ! What
is love ! and where is it ? |
And for that poor Ambition ! it springs |
From a man’s
little heart’s short fever-fit ; |
For Poesy !—no,—she has not a joy,— |
At least for
me,—so sweet as drowsy noons, |
And evenings steep’d in honied indolence ; |
O, for an age so shelter’d from annoy, |
That I may
never know how change the moons, |
Or hear the voice of busy common-sense !
|
V |
And once more came they by ;— alas !
wherefore ? |
My sleep had
been embroider'd with dim dreams ; |
My soul had been a lawn besprinkled
o'er |
With flowers,
and stirring shades, and baffled beams : |
The morn was clouded, but no shower
fell, |
Tho' in her
lids hung the sweet tears of May ; |
The open casement press'd a new-leav'd vine , |
Let in the
budding warmth and throstle's lay ; |
O Shadows ! 'twas a time to bid
farewell ! |
Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine.
|
VI |
So, ye three Ghosts, adieu ! Ye cannot
raise |
My head
cool-bedded in the flowery grass ; |
For I would not be dieted with praise, |
A pet-lamb in
a sentimental farce ! |
Fade softly from my eyes, and be once
more |
In masque-like
figures on the dreamy urn ; |
Farewell ! I yet have visions for the night, |
And for the day faint visions there is
store ; |
Vanish, ye Phantoms ! from my idle spright, |
Into the
clouds, and never more return !
|
John Keats
| Classic Poems |
|
[ La Belle Dame Sans Merci ] [ Ode to a Nightingale ] [ Ode on a Grecian Urn ] [ Ode on Indolence ] [ Ode to Psyche ] [ Ode on Melancholy ] [ Ode to autumn ] |