The Complete Works: Poetry, Plays, Letters and Extensive Biographies. John Keats. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: John Keats
Издательство: Bookwire
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isbn: 9788026839675
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      For not the faintest motion could be seen

      Of all the shades that slanted o’er the green.

      There was wide wand’ring for the greediest eye,

      To peer about upon variety;

      Far round the horizon’s crystal air to skim,

      And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim;

      To picture out the quaint, and curious bending

      Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending;

      Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves,

      Guess were the jaunty streams refresh themselves.

      I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free

      As though the fanning wings of Mercury

      Had played upon my heels: I was light-hearted,

      And many pleasures to my vision started;

      So I straightway began to pluck a posey

      Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy.

      A bush of May flowers with the bees about them;

      Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them;

      And let a lush laburnum oversweep them,

      And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them

      Moist, cool and green; and shade the violets,

      That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.

      A filbert hedge with wild briar overtwined,

      And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind

      Upon their summer thrones; there too should be

      The frequent chequer of a youngling tree,

      That with a score of light green brethen shoots

      From the quaint mossiness of aged roots:

      Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters

      Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters

      The spreading blue bells: it may haply mourn

      That such fair clusters should be rudely torn

      From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly

      By infant hands, left on the path to die.

      Open afresh your round of starry folds,

      Ye ardent marigolds!

      Dry up the moisture from your golden lids,

      For great Apollo bids

      That in these days your praises should be sung

      On many harps, which he has lately strung;

      And when again your dewiness he kisses,

      Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses:

      So haply when I rove in some far vale,

      His mighty voice may come upon the gale.

      Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight:

      With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white,

      And taper fulgent catching at all things,

      To bind them all about with tiny rings.

      Linger awhile upon some bending planks

      That lean against a streamlet’s rushy banks,

      And watch intently Nature’s gentle doings:

      They will be found softer than ring-dove’s cooings.

      How silent comes the water round that bend;

      Not the minutest whisper does it send

      To the o’erhanging sallows: blades of grass

      Slowly across the chequer’d shadows pass.

      Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach

      To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach

      A natural sermon o’er their pebbly beds;

      Where swarms of minnows show their little heads,

      Staying their wavy bodies ‘gainst the streams,

      To taste the luxury of sunny beams

      Temper’d with coolness. How they ever wrestle

      With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle

      Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand.

      If you but scantily hold out the hand,

      That very instant not one will remain;

      But turn your eye, and they are there again.

      The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses,

      And cool themselves among the em’rald tresses;

      The while they cool themselves, they freshness give,

      And moisture, that the bowery green may live:

      So keeping up an interchange of favours,

      Like good men in the truth of their behaviours

      Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop

      From low hung branches; little space they stop;

      But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek;

      Then off at once, as in a wanton freak:

      Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings,

      Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.

      Were I in such a place, I sure should pray

      That nought less sweet, might call my thoughts away,

      Than the soft rustle of a maiden’s gown

      Fanning away the dandelion’s down;

      Than the light music of her nimble toes

      Patting against the sorrel as she goes.

      How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught

      Playing in all her innocence of thought.

      O let me lead her gently o’er the brook,

      Watch her half-smiling lips, and downward look;

      O let me for one moment touch her wrist;

      Let me one moment to her breathing list;

      And as she leaves me may she often turn

      Her fair eyes looking through her locks aubùrne.

      What next? A tuft of evening primroses,

      O’er which the mind may hover till it dozes;

      O’er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,

      But that ’tis ever startled by the leap

      Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting

      Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting;

      Or by the moon lifting her silver rim

      Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim

      Coming into the blue with all her light.

      O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight

      Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers;

      Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers,

      Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams,

      Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams,

      Lover of loneliness, and wandering,

      Of upcast eye, and tender pondering!

      Thee must I praise above all other glories

      That smile us on to tell delightful stories.

      For what has made the sage or poet write

      But the fair paradise of Nature’s light?

      In the calm grandeur of a sober line,

      We