POSTHUMA I WHEN I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, Before high piled books, in charact'ry, Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain; When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; And when I feel, fair creature of an hour! That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the faery power Of unreflecting love !-then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. II IN a drear-nighted December, Their green felicity: The north cannot undo them, With a sleety whistle through them; In a drear-nighted December, Thy bubblings ne'er remember About the frozen time. Ah! would 't were so with many III ASLEEP! O sleep a little while, white pearl! Vows of my slavery, my giving up, My sudden adoration, my great love! IV LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI. BALLAD. I. O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms, The sedge has wither'd from the lake, II. O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done. III. I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever dew, And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too. IV. I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful-a faery's child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. V. I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan. VI. I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery's song. VII. She found me roots of relish sweet, VIII. She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore, And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four. IX. And there she lulled me asleep, And there I dream'd-Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dream'd On the cold hill's side. X. I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried-"La Belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!" XI. I saw their starved lips in the gloam, XII. And this is why I sojourn here, Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, V THE HUMAN SEASONS. FOUR Seasons fill the measure of the year; There are four seasons in the mind of man: He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear Takes in all beauty with an easy span: |