IX And there we slumbered on the moss, X I saw pale kings, and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; Who cried "La Belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!" XI I saw their starved lips in the gloom On the cold hill side. XII And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is withered from the lake, 40 SOLITUDE O SOLITUDE! if I must with thee dwell, Of murky buildings; climb with me to the steep,Nature's observatory whence the dell, Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell, May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep 'Mongst boughs pavilioned, where the deer's swift leap Startles the wild bee from the fox-glove bell. But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee, ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER MUCH have I traveled in the realms of gold, ΙΟ That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne; When a new planet swims into his ken; ON THE SEA It keeps eternal whisperings around Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound. Often 'tis in such gentle temper found, That scarcely will the very smallest shell Be moved for days from whence it sometime fell, When last the winds of heaven were unbound. Oh ye! who have your eye-balls vexed and tired, Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea; Oh ye! whose ears are dinned with uproar rude, Or fed too much with cloying melody, Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and brood Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quired! 10 TWO SONNETS ON FAME I FAME, like a wayward girl, will still be coy Who have not learnt to be content without her; Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her; A very Gipsy is she, Nilus-born, Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar; Ye love-sick Bards, repay her scorn for scorn, 10 II "You cannot eat your cake and have it too." Proverb. How fevered is the man, who cannot look And robs his fair name of its maidenhood; Should darken her pure grot with muddy gloom. 20 Why then should man, teasing the world for grace, Spoil his salvation for a fierce miscreed? SONNET TO SLEEP O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight, O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close, Then save me, or the passèd day will shine Save me from curious conscience, that still lords ΤΟ |