 Section number one of John Keats Selected Poems. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Leonard Wilson. John Keats Selected poems. Labeldom somersie. Oh what can ale the knighted arms alone and palely loitering? The sedge hath withered from the lake, and no birds sing. Oh what can ale the knighted arms so haggard and so woe be gone? The squirrel's granary is full, and the harvests done. I see a lily on my brow, with anguish, moist, and fever due, and on my cheeks a fading rose, fast withereth too. I met a lady in the meads, full beautiful, a fairish child. Her hair was long, her foot was light, and her eyes were wild. I made a garland for her head, and bracelets too, and a fragrant zone. She looked at me as she did love, and made sweet moan. I set her on by pacing steed, and nothing else saw all day long, for side long would she bend and sing a fairy's song. She found me roots of relish sweet, and honey wild, and manned you, and sure in language strange she said, I love thee too. She took me to her elfin grot, and there she wept, and sighed full sore. And there I shut her wild, wild eyes with kisses for. And there she lulled me asleep, and there I dreamed a woe be tied, the latest dream I ever dreamed on the cold hill's side. I saw pale kings, and princes too, pale warriors, death pale with they all. They cried, La belle dame somersie had thee enthrall. I saw their starved lips in the gloom, with horrid warning gaped wide. And I awoke, and found me here on the cold hill's side. And this is why I sojourn here alone and palely loitering, though the sedge is withered from the lake, and no birds sing. End of La belle dame somersie by John Keats, recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. Section number two of John Keats' selected poems. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Leonard Wilson. Why did I laugh tonight? No voice will tell. Why did I laugh tonight? No voice will tell. No God, no demon of severe response, deans to reply from heaven or from hell. Then to my human heart I turn at once. Heart, thou and I are here, sad and alone. I say, why did I laugh? Oh mortal pain, oh darkness, darkness, ever must I moan to question heaven and hell and heart in vain. Why did I laugh? I know this being sleaze. My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads. Yet would I on this very midnight cease, And the world's gaudy enzymes see in shreds. Verse, fame, and beauty are intense indeed. But death, intenser. Death is life's high mead. End of Why Did I Laugh Tonight? No Voice Will Tell by John Keats, recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. Section three of John Keats' selected poems. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Leonard Wilson. Meg Merleys. Old Meg she was a gypsy and lived upon the moors. Her bed it was the brown heath turf, and her house was out of doors. Her apples were smart blackberries, her currents pods a broom. Her wine was new of the wild white rose, her book a churchyard tomb. Her brothers were the craggy hills, her sisters larchen trees. Alone with her great family she lived as she did please. No breakfast had she many a morn, no dinner many a noon. And instead of supper she would stare full hard against the moon. But every morn of woodbine fresh she made her garlanding. And every night the dark glen knew she wove, and she would sing. And with her fingers old and brown she plaited mats of rushes, and gave them to the cottagers she met among the bushes. Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen and tall as Amazon. An old red blanket cloak she wore, a chip hat she had on. God rest her aged bones somewhere. She died full long agon. End of Meg Merleys by John Keats. Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. Section 4 of John Keats' Selected Poems. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson. The Eve of St. Agnes. St. Agnes' Eve, a bitter chill it was. The owl for all his feathers was a cold. The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass, and silent was the flock in woolly fold. Numb were the bead's man's fingers while he told his rosary, and while his frosted breath, like pious incense from a censor old, seemed taking flight for heaven without a death, past the sweet virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. His prayer he saith this patient holy man, then takes his lamp and ryseth from his knees, and back returneth, meager barefoot one, along the chapel aisle by slow degrees. The sculpture dead on each side seemed to freeze imprisoned in black purgatorial rails. Nights, ladies, praying in dumb oratries he passeth by, and his weak spirit fails to think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. Northward he turneth through a little door, and scarce three steps ere music's golden tongue flattered to tears this aged man and poor. But no, already had his death-bell rung. The joys of all his life were said and sung. His was harsh penance on St. Agnes Eve. Another way he went, and soon among rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, and all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve. That ancient beadsman heard the prelude soft, and so it chanced, for many a door was wide, from hurray to and fro. Soon, up aloft, the silvers gnarling trumpets scant a child. The level chambers ready with their pride were glowing to receive a thousand guests, the carved angels ever eager-eyed stared, whereupon their heads the cornice rests, with hair blown back, and wings put crosswise on their breasts. At length burst in the Argent revelry, with plume, tiara, and all rich array, numerous as shadows haunting fairly the brain, new-stuffed in youth, with traps gay of old romance. These let us wish away, and turn soul-thoughted to one lady there whose heart had brooded all that wintry day, on love, and winged St. Agnes saintly care, as she had heard old aims full many times declare. They told her how, upon St. Agnes Eve, young virgins might have visions of delight, and soft adorings from their loves receive upon the honeyed middle of the night, if ceremonies do they did it right. As supperless to bed they must retire, and couch supine their beauties lily-white, nor look behind nor sideways, but require of heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. Full of this wem was thoughtful madeline, the music yearning like a god in pain she starsely heard. Her maiden eyes, divine, fixed on the floor, saw many a sweeping train pass by. She heeded not at all, in vain came many a tiptoe amorous cavalier, and back retired, not cooled by high disdain, but she saw not. Her heart was otherware. She sighed for Agnes's dreams, the sweetest of the year. She danced along with vague, regardless eyes, anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short. The hallowed hour was near at hand. She sighs amid the temples and the thronged resort of whisperers and anger or in sport. Mid looks of love, defiance, hate and scorn, hoodwinked with very fancy. All a mort saved to see Agnes and her lambs unshorn, and all the bliss to be before tomorrow morn. So, purposing each moment to retire, she lingered still. Meantime, across the moors, had come young porphyro with heart on fire for Madeline. Beside the portal doors, buttressed for moonlight stands he, and implores all saints to give him sight of Madeline, but for one moment in the tedious hours, that he might gaze and worship all unseen. Perchats speak, kneel, touch, kiss, ensuth such things have been. He ventures in. Let no buzzed whisper tell. All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords will storm his heart. Loves fever's citadel. For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, whose varied dogs would execrations howl against his lineage. Not one breast affords him any mercy in that mansion foul. Save one old bell dam, weak in body and in soul. Ah, happy chance the aged creature came, shuffling along with ivory-headed wand, to where he stood, hid from the torches' flame, behind a broad hall pillar, far beyond the sound of merriment and chorus-planned. He startled her, but soon she knew his face, and grasped his fingers in her pulsed hand, saying, Mercy porphyro, hide thee from this place! They are all here tonight, the whole bloodthirsty race. Get hence, get hence! There's dwarfish children's brand, he had a fever late, and in the fit he cursed thee and thine, both house and land. Then there's that old lord Maurice, not a whit more tame for his gray hairs. Alas me, flit, flit like a ghost away! O gossip, dear, we're safe enough, here in this armchair sit, and tell me how. Good saints, not here, not here! Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy beer. He followed through a lowly arched way, brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume, and as she muttered, Well ah, well ah, day! He found him in a little moonlight room, pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. Now tell me, where is Mavallion, said he? Oh, tell me, Angela, why the holy loom, which none but secret sisterhood may see, when they, St. Agnes' wool, are weaving piously. St. Agnes, ah, it is St. Agnes' eve. Yet Ben will murder upon holy days. Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, and be leged, lord, of all the elves, and phased to venture so. It fills me with amaze to see thee, Porphyro. St. Agnes' eve. God's help, my lady fair, the conjurer plays this very night. Good angels heard his eve, but let me laugh a while. I've mickled time to grieve. Hee, hee, hee, hee. Febly she laugheth in the languid moon, while Porphyro, upon her face doth look, like puzzled urchin on an aged crown, who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle-book, as spectacle to she sits in chimney nook. But soon his eyes grew brilliant when she told his lady's purpose, and he scarce could brook tears at the thought of those enchantments cold, and maveline asleep in lap of legends old. Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, flushing his brow, and in his painted heart made purple riot. Then doth he propose a stratagem that makes the bell damn start. A cruel man and impious thou art, sweet lady, let her pray and sleep and dream alone with her good angels, far apart from wicked men like thee. Go, go! I deem thou cast not surely be the same that thou did seem. I will not harm her by all saints, I swear, quoth Porphyro. O may I ne'er find grace when my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, if one of her soft wringlets I displace, or look with ruffian passion in her face. Good Angela, believe me by these tears, or I will, even in a moment's space, awake with horrid shout my foaming's ears, and beard them, though it be more fanged than wolves and bears. Ah, why wilt thou affright a feeble soul, a poor weak palsy-styric and churchyard thing, whose passing bell may air the midnight toll, whose prayers for thee each morning and evening were never missed? Thus plainly does she bring a jumpler speech from burning Porphyro, so woeful and of such deep sorrowing, that Angela gives promise she will do whatever he shall wish, betide her wheel or woe. Which was to lead him in close secrecy, even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide him in a closet of such privacy that he might see her beauty uninspired, and when, perhaps that night, a pureless bride, while legion'd fairies paced the coverlet, and pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. Never on such a night have lovers met, since Merlin paid his demon all the monstrous debt. It shall be as thou wishest, said the dame. All Cates and dainties shall be stored there, quickly on this feast night. By the timbre frame her own loot thou wilt see. No time to spare, for I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare on such a catering, trust my dizzy head. Wait here, my child, with patience, kneel in prayer the while. Ah, thou must needs the lady wed, or may I never leave my grave among the dead. So saying she hobbled off with busy fear, the lover's endless minutes slowly passed. The dame returned, and whispered in his ear, to follow her, with aged eyes aghast, from fright of dim a-spile. Safe at last, through many a dusky gallery, they gained the maiden's chamber, silken, hushed, and chaste, where porphyro took covered, pleased a mane. His poor guide hurried back with agoos in her brain. Her faltering hand upon the balustrade, O' Lancela was feeling for the stare, when Madeline, St. Agnes charmed maid, rose like a mission spirit unaware. With silver tapers light and pious care, she turned and down the aged gossip led to a safe level matting. Now prepare, young porphyro, for gazing on that bed. She comes, she comes again, like ringed of frayed and fled. Out went the taper as she hurried in, its little smoke and pallid moonshine died. She closed the door, she panted all akin to spirits of the air, and visions wide. No uttered syllable or woe be tied. But to her heart, her heart was valuable, painting with eloquence her balmy side, as though a tongueless nightingale should swell her throat in vain, and die, heart stifled in her delve. A casement high and triple arch there was, all garlanded with carven imageries of fruits and flowers and bunches of knot-grass, and diamonded with panes of quaint device, innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, as are the tiger moths' deep, damasked wings. And in the midst, among thousand heraldries and twilight saints and dim emblaznings, a shielded scotchen blushed with blood of queens and kings. Full on this casement shone the wentry moon, and threw warm gules on that line's fair breast, as down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon. Rose bloom fell on her hands to Kedeprest, and on her silver cross soft amethyst, and on her hair a glory like a saint. She seemed a splendid angel, newly dressed, save wings for heaven. Porphyro grew faint. She knelt so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. Anon his heart revives. Her vesper's done, of all its wreathed pearls, her hair she frees, unclasps her warm adjules one by one, loosens her fragrant bodice, by degrees her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees. Half hidden, like a mermaid in seaweed, pensive a while she dreams awake, and sees in fancy fair Saint Agnes in her bed. But dares not look behind, for all the charm is fled. Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, in sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay, until the poppy warmth of sleep oppressed her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away, flown like a thought until the morrow day. Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain, clasped like a missile where swart panims pray, blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, as though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. Stolen to this paradise and so entranced, Porphyro gazed about her empty dress, and listened to her breathing, if a chance to wake into a slumberous tenderness, which, when he heard, that minute did he bless, and breathed himself. Then from the closet crept, noiseless as fear and wide wilderness, and over the hushed carpet silent stepped, and tween the curtain's peeped, where low how fast she slept. Then by the bedside where the faded moon made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set a table, and half anguished, threw thereon a cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet. O, for some drowsy Morpheon amulet, the boisterous midnight festive clarion, the kettle-drum, and far-head clarionet, affray his ears, though but in dying tone. The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep in blanched linen, smooth and lavender'd, while he from forth the closet brought a heap of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd, with jellies soother than the creamy curd, and lucent syrups tanked with cinnamon. Mana and dates in argacy transferred from fez, and spiced deities every one, from silken summer-canned to cedar'd Lebanon. These delicacy heaped with glowing hand on golden dishes, and in baskets bright of wreathed silver, sumptuous they stand in the retired quiet of the night, filling the chilly room with perfume light. And now my love, my Sarah fair, awake! Thou art my heaven, and I thine Aramite. Over thine eyes for meek St. Agnes' sake, for I shall drows beside thee, so my soul doth ache. Thus whispering, his warm unnerved arm sank in her pillow, shaded was her dream by the dusk curtains. It was a midnight charm impossible to melt as ice and stream, the lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam, broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies. It seemed he never, never could redeem from such a stentfast spell his lady's eyes, so mused awhile, entoiled in woofed fantasies. Awakening up he took her hollow lute to mulchwis, and in chords that tenderest be, he played an ancient ditty long since mute, in Provence called La Belle Dame Saint Merci, close to her ear touching the melody. Wherewith disturbed she uttered a soft moan, he ceased. She panted quick, and suddenly her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone. Upon his knees he sank pale as smooth sculptured stone. Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, now wide awake, the vision of her sleep. There was a painful change that nigh expelled the blisses of her dream so pure and deep, at which fair Madeline began to weep and moan forth witless words with many a sigh, while still her gaze on Porphyro would keep, who knelt with joinered hands and piteous eye, fearing to move or speak, she looked so dreamingly. Ah Porphyro said she, but even now thy voice was at sweet tremble in my near, made tunable with every sweetest vow, and those sad eyes were spiritual and clear. How changed thou art, how pallid, chill, and drear! Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, those looks immortal, those complainings dear. Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, for if thou dyest my love, I know not where to go. Beyond a mortal man impassioned far at these voluptuous acts since he arose, ethereal flushed, and like a throbbing star seen mid the sapphire heavens deep repose, into her dream he melted, as the rose blended its odor with the violet, solution sweet. Meantime the frost wind blows like love's alarm pattering the sharp sleet against the windowpanes, St. Agnes's moon hath set, tis dark, quick patter at the flower-blown sleet. This is no dream, my bride, my madeline, tis dark, the icid gust still rave and beat. No dream, alas, alas, and woe is mine, Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. Cruel, what traitor could thee hither bring? I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, Though thou forsakest a deceived thing, a dove forlorn and lost, with sick and prunet wing. My madeline, sweet reamer, lovely bride, Say, may I be for, A, thy vassal blessed, Thy beauty shield heart-shaped and vermeal-dyed. Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest After so many hours of toil and quest, A famished pilgrim, saved by miracle. Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest, Saving of thy sweet self, if thou thickest well, To trust fair madeline, to no rude infidel. Harkt is an elfin storm from fairyland, Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed. Arise, arise, the morning is at hand, The bloated wassillers will never heed. Let us away, my love, with happy speed, There are no ears to hear or eyes to see, Drowned all in renish, and the sleepy mead. Awake, arise, my love, and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee. She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around, At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears. Down the wide stairs, a darkling way they found. In all the house was heard no human sound, A chain-drooped lamp was flickering by each door, The aris, rich with horsemen, hawk, and hound, Fluttered in the besieging winds uproar, And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. They glide like phantoms into the wide hall, Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, Where lay the porter in uneasy sprawl With the huge empty flagon by his side. The wakeful bloodhound rose and took his hide, But his sagacious eye and inmate owns. By one and one the bolts full easy slide, The chains lie silent on the foot-worn stones, The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. And they are gone, by ages long ago These lovers fled away into the storm. That night the baron dreamt of many a woe, And all his warrior guests, with shade and form of witch and demon and large coffin-worm, Were long benight married. Angela the Old died palsy twitched, With meager face deformed. The Beed's man, after a thousand obvies told, For a unsought for, slept among his ashes cold. End of The Eve of St. Agnes by John Keats Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. Section 5 of John Keats' Selected Poems This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson. The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone. The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone. Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, And softer breast, warm breath, light whisper, tender semitone, bright eyes, Accomplished shape, and languorous waste. Faded the flower and all its budded charms, Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes, Faded the shape of beauty from my arms, Faded the voice warmth, whiteness, paradise, Vanished unceasedably at Chateveve, When the dusk holiday, or hallowed night, Of fragrant curtained love, Begins to weave the wolf of darkness thick, for hid delight. But as I've read Love's missile through to-day, He'll let me sleep, seeing I fast, and pray. End of the day is gone, and all its sweets are gone. Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. Section six of John Keats' selected poems. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson. Where be ye going, you Devon maid? Where be ye going, you Devon maid? And what have ye there in the basket? The tight little fairy just fresh from the dairy. Will ye give me some cream, if I ask it? I love your meads, and I love your flowers, and I love your junkets, mainly. But behind the door I love kissing more. Oh, look not so disdainly. I love your heels, and I love your dales, and I love your flocks of bleeding. But oh, on the heather to lie together with both our hearts of beating. I'll put your basket all safe in a nook. Your shawl I'll hang up on this willow. And we will sigh in the daisy's eye, and kiss on a grass-green pillow. End of Where be ye going, you Devon maid? by John Keats. Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. Section seven of John Keats' selected poems. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson. After dark vapors have oppressed our planes. After dark vapors have oppressed our planes for a long dreary season, comes a day born of the gentle south, and clears away from the sick heavens all unseemly stains. The anxious smoth, relieving from its pains, takes as a long lost rite the feel of May. The eyelids with the passing coolness play, like rose leaves with the drip of summer rains. And calmest thoughts come round us. As of leaves budding, fruit ripening in stillness. Autumn suns smiling at Eve upon the quiet sheaves. Sweet Saphos' cheek. A sleeping infant's breath. The gradual sand that through an hourglass runs. A woodland rivulet. A poet's death. End of After dark vapors have oppressed our planes by John Keats. Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. Section eight of John Keats' selected poems. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson. Ode on a Grecian urn. Thou still unravaged bride of quietness. Thou foster child of silence and slow time. Sylvan historian, who can thus express a flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme. What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape of deities or mortals or of both, in tepe or the dales of Arkady. What men or gods are these? What maidens loathe? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Hurt melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter. Therefore ye soft pipes play on, not to the sensual ear, but more endeared pipe to the spirit, ditties of no tone. Fair youth beneath the trees, Thou canst not leave thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare. Bold lover never, never canst thou kiss, though winning near the goal. Yet do not grieve. She cannot fade, though thou has not thy bliss. Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair. Ah, happy, happy boughs that cannot shed your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu. And happy melodists on weary head, forever piping songs, forever new. More happy love, more happy, happy love, forever warm and still to be enjoyed. Forever panting, and forever young. All breathing human passion, far above, that leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloyed. A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? Do what green altar, oh mysterious priest, leads thou that heifer lowing at the skies, and all her silken flanks with garland stressed. What little town by river or seashore, or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, is emptied of this spoke, this pious mourn. And little town, thy streets forevermore will silent be, and not a soul to tell why thou art desolate can ere return. Oh, attic shape, fair attitude, with greed of marble men and maidens overwrought, with forest branches and the trodden weed. Thou silent form, dost tease us out of thought, as doth eternity. Cold pastoral, when old age shall this generation waste, thou shalt remain in midst of other woe than ours. A friend to man, to whom thou sayest, beauty is truth, truth, beauty. That is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. End of Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio Section 9 of John Keats Selected Poems This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson O Solitude, if I must with thee dwell, O Solitude, if I must with thee dwell, let it not be among the jumbled heap of murky buildings. Climb with me the steep nature's observatory, once the dell in flowery slopes, its rivers crystal swell, may seem a span. Let me thy vigils keep amongst bowels 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, yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind, whose words are images of thoughts refined, is my soul's pleasure. And it sure must be almost the highest bliss of humankind, when to thy haughts two tendred spirits flee. End of O Solitude, if I must with thee dwell, by John Keats Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio Section 10 of John Keats Selected Poems This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson Keen-fetful gusts are whispering here and there. Keen-fetful gusts are whispering here and there among the bushes, half leafless and dry. The stars look very cold about the sky, and I have many miles on foot to fare. Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air, or of the dead leaves rustling drearily, or of those silver lamps that burn on high, or of the distance from home's pleasant lair. For I am brim full of the friendliness that in a little cottage I have found, of fair-haired Milton's eloquent distress, and all his love for gentle lissid drowned. Of lovely Laura in her light green dress, and faithful Petrarch gloriously crowned. End of Keen-fetful gusts are whispering here and there by John Keats Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio Section 11 of John Keats Selected Poems This Librivox Recording is in the Public Domain Recording by Leonard Wilson Ode Bards of passion and of mirth, ye have left your souls on earth. Have ye souls in heaven too, double-lived in regions new? Yes, and those of heaven commune with the spheres of sun and moon, with the noise of fountains wondrous, and the parl of voices thundrous, with the whisper of heaven's trees, and one another in soft ease. Cedadon elision lawns, browsed by none but Diane's fawns, underneath large bluebells tinted where the daisies are rose-scented, and the rose herself has got perfume which on earth is not, where the nightingale does sing not a senseless transit thing, but divine melodious truth, philosophic numbers smooth, tales and golden histories of heaven and its mysteries. Thus ye live on high, and then on the earth ye live again, and the souls she left behind you teach us here the way to find you, where your other souls are joying never slumbered, never cloying. Here your earth-born souls still speak to mortals of their little weak, of their sorrows and delights, of their passions and their spights, of their glory and their shame. What does strengthen and what maim? Thus ye teach us every day wisdom, though fled far away. Bards of passion and of mirth ye have left your souls on earth, ye have souls in heaven too, double-lived in region's new. End of Ode by John Keats. Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. Section 12 of John Keats' Selected Poems. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson. When I have fears. When I have fears that I may cease to be, before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain, before high pilot books and characterry hold like rich garners the full ripened grain. When I behold upon the night's starred 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 fairy 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. End of When I Have Fears by John Keats. Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. Section 13 of John Keats' Selected Poems. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson. Stanzas. In a drearnighted December to happy happy tree thy branches ne'er remember their green felicity. The north cannot undo them with a sleety whistle through them, nor frozen thawings glue them from budding at the prime. In a drearnighted December to happy happy brook thy bubbling snare remember Apollo's summer look. But with a sweet forgetting they stay their crystal fretting, never never petting about the frozen time. Ah, would twer so with many a gentle girl and boy. But were there ever any writhed not at passage joy? To know the change and feel it when there is none to heal it, nor numbed sense to steal it, was never said in rhyme. End of Stanzas by John Keats. Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. Section 14 of John Keats' Selected Poems. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson. On first looking into Chapman's Homer. Much have I traveled in the realms of gold and many goodly states and kingdoms seen. Round many western islands have I been which bards and fealty to Apollo hold. Offed of one wide expanse had I been told that deep-browed Homer ruled as his demean. Yet did I never breathe its pure serene till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold. Then felt I like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his kin. Or like Stout Cortes when with eagle eyes he stared at the Pacific and all his men looked at each other with a wild surmise. Silent upon a peak in Darien. End of on first looking into Chapman's Homer by John Keats. Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. Section 15 of John Keats' Selected Poems. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson. Isabella or The Pot of Basil. A story from Bocaccio. Fair Isabelle, poor simple Isabelle. Lorenzo, a young Palmer in love's eye. They could not in the self-same mansion dwell without some stir of heart, some melody. They could not sit at meals but feel how well it soothed each to be the other by. They could not sure beneath the same roof sleep but to each other dream and nightly weep. With every mourn their love grew tenderer, with every eave deeper and tenderer still. He might not in house, field, or garden stir, but her full shape would all his seeing fill. And his continual voice was pleasanter to her than noise of trees or hidden rill. Her loot-string gave an echo of his name. She spoiled her half-done broidery with the same. He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch before the door had given her to his eyes. And from her chamber window he would catch her beauty farther than the falcon spies. And constant as her vespers would he watch, because her face was turned to the same skies, and with sick longing all the night out where to hear her mourning step upon the stair. A whole long month of May in this sad plight made their cheeks paler by the break of June. Tomorrow will I bow to my delight, tomorrow will I ask my lady's boon. Oh, may I never see another night, Lorenzo, if thy lips breathe not love's tune. So spake they to their pillows, but alas honey-less days and days did he let pass. Until sweet Isabella's untouched cheek fell sick within the rose's just domain, fell thin as a young mother's who'd have sick by every lull to cool her infant's pain. How ill she is, said he, I may not speak, and yet I will, and tell my love all plain. If looks speak love-laws I will drink her tears, and at the least will startle off her cares. So said he, one fair mourning, and all day his heart beat awfully against his side, and to his heart he inwardly did pray for power to speak. But still the ruddy tide stifled his voice, and pulsed resolve away, fevered his high conceit of such a bride, yet brought him to the meekness of a child. Alas, when passion is both meek and wild. So once more he had waked and anguished at dreary night of love and misery, if Isabella's quick eye had not been wed to every symbol on his fore-end high. She saw it waxing very pale and dead, and straight all flushed, so lisped tenderly, Lorenzo. Here she ceased her tempered quest, but in her tone and look he read the rest. Oh Isabella, I can half perceive that I may speak by grief into thine ear. If thou didst ever anything believe, believe how I love thee, believe how near my soul is to its doom. I would not grieve thy hand by unwelcome pressing, would not fear thine eyes by gazing. But I cannot live another night, and not by passion shrive. Love, thou art leading me from wintry cold, Lady, thou leadest me to summer climb, and I must taste the blossoms that unfold in its ripe warmth this gracious morning-time. So said his air-wild timid lips grew bold and poised with hers in dewy rhyme. Great bliss was with them, and great happiness grew like a lusty flower in June's caress. Parting they seemed to tread upon the air, twin roses by the zephyr blown apart, only to meet again more close and share the inward fragrance of each other's heart. She, to her chamber gone, a ditty fairer sang of delicious love and honeyed dart. He, with light steps, went up a western hill, and bad the sun farewell, and joyed his fill. All close they met again before the dusk had taken from the stars its pleasant veil. All close they met, all eaves, before the dusk had taken from the stars its pleasant veil, close in a bower of hyacinth and musk, unknown of any, free from whispering tale. Ah, better had it been for ever so than idle ears should pleasure in their woe. Were they unhappy then? It cannot be. Too many tears for lovers have been shed, too many sighs give we to them and fee, too much a pity after they are dead. Too many doleful stories do we see whose matter in bright gold were best to be read, except in such a page were theseious spouts over the pathless waves toward him boughs. But for the general award of love the little sweet death kill much bitterness. Though Dido's silent is and undergrove, and Isabella's was a great distress, though young Lorenzo and warm Indian clove was not embalmed, this truth is not the less. Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers, know there is richest juice in poisoned flowers. With their two brothers, this fair lady dwelt, enriched from ancestral merchandise, and for them many a weary hand had swelped in tortured mines and noisy factories, and many once proud quivered loins did melt in blood from stinging whip, with hollow eyes many all day in dazzling rivers stood to take the rich-ord driftings of the flood. For them the salon diver held his breath and went all naked to the hungry shark. For them his ears gushed blood. For them in death the seal on the cold ice with pittress bark lay full of darts. For them alone did see the thousand men in troubles wide and dark, half ignorant they turned an easy wheel that set sharp racks at work to pinch and peel. Why were they proud? Because their marble founts gushed with more pride than do a wretch's tears? Why were they proud? Because fair orange mounts were of more soft descent than Lazar stares? Why were they proud? Because red-lined accounts were richer than the songs of Grecian years? Why were they proud? Again we ask aloud. Why in the name of glory were they proud? Yet were these florentines as self-retired in hungry pride and dainful cowardice as two close Hebrews in that land inspired, paled in and vinearded from beggar spies, the hawks of ship-mast forests, the untired and paneered mules for duckets and old lies, quick cat's paws in the generous stray away, great wits and Spanish tuskin and melee. How was it these same ledgermen could spy fair Isabella in her downy nest? How could they find out, in Lorenzo's eye, a strain from his toil? Hot Egypt's pest into their vision covetous and sly. How could these money-bags see east and west? Yet so they did, and every dealer fair must see behind, as doth the hunted hare. O eloquent and famed bocaccio, of thee we now should ask for giving boon, and of thy spicy myrtles as they blow, and of thy roses amorous of the moon, and of thy lilies that do paler grow, now they can no more hear thy gettern's tune, for venturing syllables that ill-be-seem the quiet glooms of such a piteous theme. Grant thou a pardon here, and then the tale shall move on soberly as it is meet. There is no other crime, no matter sale, to make old prose in modern rhyme more sweet. But it is done, succeed the verse or fail, to honor thee, and thy gone spirit read, to stead thee as a verse in English tongue, an echo of thee in the north wind some. These brethren, having found by many signs what love Lorenzo for their sister had, and how she loved him too, each unconfines his bitter thoughts to other, well and I'm mad that he, the servant of their trade designs, should in their sister's love be blithe and glad, when it was their plan to coax her by degrees to some high noble and his olive trees. And many a jealous conference had they, and many times they bit their lips alone, before they fixed upon a surest way to make the youngster for his crime atone. And at the last these men of cruel clay cut mercy with a sharp knife to the bone, for they resolved in some forest dim to kill Lorenzo, and there bury him. So on a pleasant morning as he lent into the sunrise or the balustrade of the garden terrace, towards him they bent their footing through the dews, and to him said, You seem there in the quiet of content Lorenzo, and we are most loath to invade, count speculation, but if you are wise bestride your steed while cold is in the skies. Today we purposely, this hour we mount to spur three leagues towards the Apennine. Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun counts his dewy rosary on the eglentine. Lorenzo courteously, as he was wont, bowed a fair greeting to these serpents swine, and went in haste to get in readiness, with belt and spur, and bracing huntsman's dress. And as he to the courtyard passed along, each third step did he pause and listened off if he could hear his lady's matinsong, or the light whisper of her footsteps off. And as he thus over his passion hung, he heard a laugh, full musical aloft. When looking up he saw her features bright, smile through an indoor lattice, all delight. Love, Isabelle, said he, I was in pain lest I should miss to bid thee a good morrow. What if I should lose thee when so faint I am to stifle all the heavy sorrow of a poor three-hour's absence? But we'll gain out of the amorous dark what day doth borrow. Good-bye, I'll soon be back. Good-bye, said she. And as he went she chanted merrily. So the two brothers and their murdered man rode past fair Florence, to where Arno's stream gurgles through straightened banks, and still doth fan itself with dancing bulrush, and the brim keeps head against the freshets. Sick and wan, the brothers' faces and the ford did seem. Lorenzo's flush with love. They passed the water into a forest quiet for the slaughter. There was Lorenzo's slain, and buried in. There in that forest did his great love cease. Ah, when a soul doth thus its freedom, when it aches in loneliness, is ill at peace, as the brake-covered bloodhounds of such sin. They dipped their swords in the water, and did tease their horses homeward with convulsed spur, each richer by his being a murderer. They told their sister how, with sudden speed, Lorenzo had taken ship for foreign lands, because of some great urgency and need in their affairs, requiring trusty hands. Poor girl, put on thy stifling widow's weed, and scape at once from hopes accursed bands, to they thou wilt not see him, nor to-morrow. And the next day will be a day of sorrow. She weeps alone for pleasures not to be. Sorely she wept until the night came on. And then, instead of love, oh misery, she brooded o'er the luxury alone. His image in the dusk she seemed to see, and to the silence made a gentle moan, spreading her perfect arms upon the air, and on her couch low murmuring, Where, oh, where? But selfishness, love's cousin, held not long its fiery vigil in her single breast. She fretted for the golden hour, and hung upon the time with feverish unrest. Not long, for soon into her heart a throng of higher occupants, a richer zest came tragic, passion not to be subdued, and sorrow for her love in travels rude. In the mid-days of autumn, on their eaves, the breath of winter comes from far away, and the sick west continually bereaves of some gold tinge, and plays a round delay of death among the bushes and the leaves, to make all bearer before he dares to stray from his north cavern. So, sweet Isabel, by gradual decay from beauty fell. Because Lorenzo came not. Often time she asked her brothers, with an eye all pale, striving to be itself, what dungeon climbs could keep him off so long. They spake a tale, time after time, to quiet her. Their crimes came on them, like a smoke from Hennem's veil, and every night in dreams they groaned aloud, to see their sister in her snowy shroud. And she had died in drowsy ignorance, but for a thing more deadly dark than all. It came like a fierce potion drunk by chance, which saves a sick man from the feathered pawl for some few gasping moments, like a lance waking an Indian from his cloudy hall with cruel pierce, and bringing him again sense of the gnawing fire at heart and brain. It was a vision. In the drowsy gloom, the doll of midnight, at her couch's foot, Lorenzo stood, and went. The forest tomb, he had marred his glossy hair, which once could shoot luster into the sun, and put cold doom upon his lips, and taken the soft lute from his lorn voice, and passed his loman ears, and made a myery channel for his tears. Strange sound it was, when the pale shadow spake, for there was striving in its piteous tongue to speak as when on earth it was awake, and Isabella on its music hung. Langer there was in it, and tremulous shake, as in a palsy druid's harp unstrung, and through it moaned a ghostly undersong, like horse-night gusts, sepulchral briars among. Its eyes, the wild, were still all dewy bright with love, and kept all phantom fear aloof from the poor girl by magic of their light. The wild it did unthread the horrid wolf of the late darkened time, the murderous spite of pride and avarice, the dark pine roof in the forest, and the sodden turfid dell, where, without any word, from stabs he fell. Saying, moreover, Isabella, my sweet, red water-berries droop above my head, and a large flit stone weighs upon my feet. Around me, beaches and high chest that shed their leaves, and prickly nuts, a sheepfold bleed comes from beyond the river to my bed. Go shed one tear upon my heather bloom, and it shall comfort me within the tomb. I am a shadow now, alas, alas, upon the skirts of human nature dwelling alone. I chant alone the holy mass, while little sounds of life round me kneeling, and glossy bees at noon do fieldward pass, and many a chapel bell the hour is telling, painting me through. Those sounds grow strange to me, and thou art distant in humanity. I know what was, I feel full well what is, and I should rage if spirits could go mad. Though I forget the taste of earthly bliss, that pale-ness warms my grave, as though I had a seraph chosen from the bright abyss to be my spouse. Thy pale-ness makes me glad, thy beauty grows upon me, and I feel a greater love through all my essence steel. The spirit mourned, adieu, dissolved and left the atom darkness in a slow turmoil, as when of healthful midnight sleep bereft, thinking on rugged hours and fruitless toil, we put our eyes into a pillowy cleft, and see the spangly gloom froth up and boil. It made sad Isabella's eyelids ache, and in the dawn she started up awake. Ah-ho! said she, I knew not this hard life, I thought the worst was simple misery, I thought some fate with pleasure or with strife portioned us, happy days or else to die. But there is crime, a brother's bloody knife. Sweet spirit, thou hast schooled my infancy, I'll visit thee for this, and kiss thine eyes, and greet thee mourn and even in the skies. When the full morning came she had devised how she might secret to the forest high, how she might find the clay so dearly prized, and sing to it one latest lullaby, how her short absence might be unsurmised, while she the endmost of the dream would try. Resolved she took with her an aged nurse, and went into that dismal forest hearse. See, as they creep along the riverside, how she doth whisper to that aged dame, and after looking around the champagne-wide shows her a knife. What feverous hectic flame burns into the child, what good can thee be tied that thou should smile again? The evening came, and they had found Lorenzo's earthy bed. The flint was there, the berries at his head. Who hath not loitered in a green churchyard and let his spirit, like a demon mole, work through the clay-y soil and gravel-harg, to see skull, coffined bones, and funeral stall, pitting each form that hungry death have marred, and filling it once more with human soul. Ah, that is holiday to what was felt when Isabella, by Lorenzo, knelt. She gazed into the fresh-thrown mold, as though one glanced fully all its secrets tell. Clearly she saw, as other eyes would know, pale limbs at bottom of a crystal well. Upon the murderous spot she seemed to grow, like to a native lily of the dell. Then with her knife all sudden she began to dig more fervently than misers can. Soon she turned up a soiled glove, whereon her silk had played in purple fantasies. She kissed it with the lip more chilled than stone, and put it in her bosom, where it dries, and freezes utterly unto the bone those dainties made to still and infant's cries. Then Ganshee worked again, nor stayed her care but to throw back at time surveilling hair. That old nurse stood beside her wondering until her heart felt pity to the core at sight of such a dismal laboring. And so she kneeled with her locks all-whore, and put her lean hands to the horrid thing. Three hours they labored at this travail sore. At last they felt the kernel of the grave, and Isabella did not step and rave. Ah, wherefore all this wormy circumstance, why linger at the yawning tomb so long? O, for the gentleness of old romance, the simple planing of a minstrel song. Fair reader at the old tale, take a glance, for here in truth it doth not well belong to speak. O, turn thee to the very tale, and taste the music of that vision pale. With duller steel and the persian sword they cut away no formless monster's head, but one whose gentleness did well accord with death as life. The ancient harps have said, love never dies, but lives immortal lord. If love impersonate was ever dead, pale Isabelle kissed it, and lo moaned. It was love, cold, dead indeed, but not dethroned. In anxious secrecy they took at home. And then the prize was all for Isabelle. She calmed its wild hair with a golden comb, and all around each eye's apocryl cell pointed each fringed lash, the smeared loam with tears as chilly as a dripping well she drenched away. And still she calmed and kept sighing all day, and still she kissed and wept. Then in a silken scarf, sweet with the dews of precious flowers plucked an araby, and divine liquids come with odorous ooze through the cold serpent pipe refreshfully, she wrapped it up. And for its tomb did choose a garden-pot where she laid it by, and covered it with mold, and o'er it set sweet basil, which her tears kept ever wet. And she forgot stars, the moon and sun, and she forgot the blue above the trees, and she forgot the dews where waters run, and she forgot the chilly autumn breeze. She had no knowledge when the day was done, and the new morn she saw not. But in peace hung over her sweet basil ever more, and moistened it with tears unto the core. And so she ever fed it with thin tears, whence thick and green and beautiful it grew, so that it smelt more balmy than its peers of basil tufts in Florence, for it drew nurture besides and life from human fears, from the fast-moldering head there shut from view, so that the jewel, safely casketed, came forth, and in perfumed leaflets spread. O melancholy linger here a while, O music, music, breathe despondingly. O echo, echo, from some somber isle unknown, Lethion, sigh to us, O sigh. Spirits in grief lift up your heads and smile, Lift up your heads, sweet spirits, heavily, And make a pale light in your cypress glooms, Tenting with silver wand your marble tombs. Mone hither all ye syllables of woe, From the deep throat of sad melpomony, Through bronze and lyre and tragic order go, And touch the strings into a mystery, Sound mournfully upon the winds and lo, For simple Isabel is soon to be among the dead. She withers, like a palm, Cut by an Indian for its juicy balm. O leave the palm to wither by itself, Let not quick winter chill its dying hour. It may not be. Those bailites of Pelf, her brethren, noted the continual shower from her dead eyes, And many a curious elf among her tendred, Wondered that such dour of youth and beauty Should be thrown aside by one marked out To be a noble bride. And furthermore, her brethren wondered much Why she sat drooping by the bazzo green, And why it flourished as by magic touch. Greatly they wondered what the thing might mean. They could not surely give belief That such a very nothing would have power to wean Her from her own fair youth and pleasures gay, And even remembrance of her love's delay. Therefore they watched a time When they might sift this hidden whim, And long they watched in vain, For seldom did she go to Chapel Shrift, And seldom felt she any hunger-pain. And when she left she hurried back as swift As bird on wing to breast its eggs again, And patient as a hen-bird sat her there, Beside her basil, weeping through her hair. Yet they contrived to steal the basil-pot, And to examine it in secret place. The thing was vile with green and livid spot, And yet they knew it was Lorenzo's face. The garden of their murder they had got, And so left Florence in a moment's space, Never to turn again, away they went, With blood upon their heads to banishment. O melancholy, turn thine eyes away, O music, music, breathe despondingly. O echo, echo, on some other day From Isles Lethion, sigh to us, O sigh. Spirits of grief sing not your well away, For Isabel, sweet Isabel, Will die, will die a death too lone and incomplete. Now they obtained the way, her basil-sweet. Piteous she looked on dead and senseless things, Asking for her lost basil amourously, And with melodious chuckle in the strings of her lorn voice, She oftentimes would cry After the pilgrim and his wanderings To ask him where her basil was, And why it was hid from her, Where cruel tis said she To steal my basil-pot away from me. And so she pined, And so she died for lorn, Imploring for her basil to the last. No heart was there in Florence, But did mourn in pity of her love so overcast. And a sad ditty of this story Born from mouth to mouth Through all the country past Still is the birth and song. O cruelty to steal my basil-pot away from me. End of Isabella or the Pot of Basil by John Keats Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio Section 16 of John Keats' Selected Poems This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson. Happy is England. Happy is England. I could be content to see no other verger than its own, To feel no other breezes than are blown through its tall woods With higher romances blint. Yet do I sometimes feel a language meant For Skye's Italian, And an inward groan to sit upon an alp As on a throne, And half forget what world or worldling meant. Happy is England. Sweet are her artless daughters. Enough their simple loveliness for me. Enough their whitest arms and silence clinging. Yet do I often warmly burn to see beauties of deeper glance, And hear their singing and float with them about the summer waters. End of Happy is England by John Keats Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio Section 17 of John Keats' Selected Poems This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson. Too Fanny. I cry your mercy, pity, love, I love, Merciful love that tantalizes not, One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love, Unmasked, and being seen without a blot. Oh, let be have the whole, all, all be mine, That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest of love, Your kiss, those hands, those eyes divine, That warm, white, lucent, million-pleasured breast. Yourself, your soul, in pity give me all, Withhold no atom's atom, or I die. Or living on, perhaps, your wretched thrall. Forget, in the mist of idle misery, life's purposes, The pallet of my mind losing its gust, and my ambition blind. End of Too Fanny by John Keats Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio Section 18 of John Keats' Selected Poems This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson. To one who has been long in city-pent To one who has been long in city-pent Tis very sweet to look into the fair and open face of heaven, To breathe the prayer full in the smile of the blue firmament. Who is more happy when, with heart's content, Fatigued, he sinks into some pleasant layer of wavy grass, And reads a debonair and gentle tale of love and languishment. Returning home at evening, with an ear catching the notes of Philomel, An eye watching the sailing cloud blitz' bright career, He mourns that day so soon has glided by. In like the passage of an angel's tear That falls through the clear ether silently. End of To One Who Has Been Long in City-Pent by John Keats Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio Section 19 of John Keats' Selected Poems This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson. Ode on Melancholy No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist wolf-spain, Tight-witted for its poisonous wine, Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed by nightshade, Ruby grape of Proserpine, Make not your rosary of you berries, Nor let the beetle nor the death moth Be your mournful psyche, nor the downy owl, A partner in your sorrow's mysteries, For shade to shade will come too drowsily, And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. But when the melancholy fit shall fall, Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud, Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies, Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Imprison her soft hand and let her rave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. She dwells with beauty, beauty that must die, And joy whose hand is ever at his lips bidding adieu, And aching pleasure nigh turning to poison, While the bee-mouth sips. Eye in the very temple of delight, Veiled melancholy has her sovereign shrine, Though seen of none, save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst joy's grape against his palate fine. His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung. End of O'don Melancholy by John Keats Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio Section 20 of John Keats' Selected Poems This LibriVox recording is in the public domain Recording by Leonard Wilson On Fame Sonnet One Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy To those who woo her with two slavish knees, But make surrender to some thoughtless boy, And doze the moor upon a heart at ease. She is a gypsy, will not speak to those Who have not learnt to be content without her. A jilt, whose ear was never whispered close, Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her. A very gypsy as she, nylosporne, Sister-in-law to jealous potifar. Ye love-sick bards, repay her scorn for scorn. Ye artists' lovelorn madmen that ye are, Make your best bow to her and bid adieu. Then, if she likes it, she will follow you, On Fame Sonnet Two. You cannot eat your cake and have it, too, proverb. How fevered is the man who cannot look upon his mortal days With temperate blood, who vexes all the leaves Of his life's book, and robs his fair name Of its maidenhood. It is as if the rose should pluck herself, Or the ripe plum finger its misty bloom, As if an eyed, like a meddling elf, Should darken her pure grot with muddy gloom. But the rose leaves herself upon the briar, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed, And the ripe plum still wears its dim attire. The undisturbed lake has crystal space. Why then should man, teasing the world for grace, Spoil his salvation for a fierce miscreed? End of On Fame by John Keats Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio Section 21 of John Keats Selected Poems This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson On the Grasshopper and Cricket The poetry of earth is never dead. When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, A voice will run from hedge to hedge about the pneumon mead. That is the Grasshoppers. He takes the lead in summer luxury. He has never done with his delights, For when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never. On a lone winter evening, When the frost has wrought a silence, From the stove there shrills the crickets song, In warped increasing ever, And seems to one in drowsiness half lost, The Grasshoppers among some grassy hills. End of On the Grasshopper and Cricket by John Keats Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio Section 22 of John Keats Selected Poems This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson To Autumn Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom friend of the maturing sun, Conspiring with him how to load and bless with fruit, The vines that round the thatch-eaves run, To bend with apples the most cottage trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core, To swell the gourd and plump the hazel shells With the sweet kernel, To set budding more and still more Later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For summer has orb-rimmed their clammy cells. Who have not seen thee off to mid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find The sitting careless sun a granary floor, Thy hair soft lifted by the winnowing wind, Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, While thy hook spares the next swath, And all its twine and flowers. And sometimes, like a gleener, Thou dost keep steady thy laden head across a brook, Or by a cider-press with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozing's hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? I, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music to, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue. Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river-sallows, born aloft, Or sinking as the light-wind lives or dies, And full-grown lambs loud-bleat from hilly-born, Hedge crickets sing, and now, with treble soft, The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. Fill for me a brimming bowl. Fill for me a brimming bowl, And let me in it drown my soul, But put therein some drug designed To banish woman from my mind, For I want not the stream inspiring That heats the sense with lewd desiring, But I want as deep a draft as air From lethy's waves was coft, From my despairing breast to charm The image of the fairest form That air my reveling eyes beheld, That air my wandering fancy spelled. Tis vain, a way I cannot chase The melting softness of that face, The beaminess of those bright eyes, That breast earth's only paradise. My sight will never more be blessed, For all I see has lost its zest, Nor with delight can I explore The classic page, the muses' lore. Had she but known how beat my heart, And with one smile relieved its smart, I should have felt the sweet relief, I should have felt the joy of grief. Yet as a tusk in the snow of Lapland Thinks on sweet Arno, Even so forever shall she be The halo of my memory. And a fill for me, a brimming bowl, By John Keats, Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. Section 24 of John Keats' Selected Poems This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson. How many bards gild the lapses of time. How many bards gild the lapses of time. A few of them have ever been the food Of my delighted fancy. I could brood over their beauties, Earthly or sublime. And often, when I sit me down to rhyme, These will enthrongs before my mind intrude. But no confusion, no disturbance rude, Do the occasion, tis a pleasing chime. So the unnumbered sounds that evening store The songs of birds, the whispering of the leaves, The voice of waters, the great bell that heaves With solemn sound, and thousand others more That distance of reconnaissance bereaves Makes pleasing music and not wild uproar. End of How Many Bards Gild the Lapses of Time By John Keats. Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. Section 25 of John Keats' Selected Poems This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson. Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art. Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art. Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night, And watching with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless aromite, The moving waters at their priestlike task, A pure ablution round Earth's human shores. Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask of snow, Upon the mountains and the moors. No yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast, To feel forever as soft fall and swell, Awake forever in a sweet unrest, Still still to hear her tender taken breath, And so live ever, or else swoon to death. And of Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art. By John Keats. Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. Section 26 of John Keats' Selected Poems This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson. To Hope. When by my solitary hearth I sit, And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom, When no fair dreams before my mind's eye flit, And the bare heath of life presents no bloom, Sweet hope ethereal balm upon me shed, And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head. When ere I wander at the fall of night, Where woven boughs shut out the moon's bright ray, Should sad despondency my musings fright, And frown to drive fair cheerfulness away, Peep with the moonbeams through the leafy roof, And keep that fiend despondance far aloof. Should disappointment, parent of despair, Strive for her son to seize my careless heart, When like a cloud he sits upon the air, Preparing on his spellbound prey to dart, Chase him away, sweet hope, with visage bright, And fright him as the morning frightens night. When ere the fate of those I hold most, dear, Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow, O bright-eyed Hope, my morbid fancy cheer, Let me a while thy sweetest comforts borrow, My heaven-born radiance around me shed, And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head. Should ere unhappy love my bosom pain, From cruel parents or relentless fairer, O let me think it is not quite in vain To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air. Sweet hope, ethereal balm upon me shed, And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head. In the long vista of the years to roll, Let me not see our country's honour fade, O let me see our land retain her soul, Her pride, her freedom, and not freedom shade, From thy bright eyes, unusual brightness shed, Beneath thy pinions, canopy my head. Let me not see the Patriots high bequest, Great liberty, how great in plain attire, With the base purple of a court oppressed, Bowing her head and ready to expire. But let me see these stoop from heaven on wings That fill the skies with silver glitterings. And as in sparkling majesty a star Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud, Brightening the half-veiled face of heaven afar, So when dark thoughts my boating spirit shroud, Sweet hope, celestial influence round me shed, Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head. End of To Hope by John Keats Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio Section 27 of John Keats Selected Poems This LibriVox recording is in the public domain Recording by Leonard Wilson On the Sonnet If by dull rhymes our English must be chained, And like Andromeda the Sonnet Suite Fettered in spite of painted loveliness, Let us find out if we must be constrained, Sandals more interwoven and complete To fit the naked foot of policy. Let us inspect the lyre and weigh the stress of every chord, And see what may be gained by ear-industrious And attention-meet. Misers of sound and syllable, No less than Midas of his coinage, Let us be jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown. So if we may not let the muse be free, She will be bound with garlands of her own. End of On the Sonnet by John Keats Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio Section 28 of John Keats Selected Poems This LibriVox recording is in the public domain Recording by Leonard Wilson Ode to a Nightingale My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, As though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and lethy words had sunk. Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness, That thou light-winged dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot, a beech in green, And shadows numberless, singest of summer, In full-throated ease. O, for a draft of vintage, That hath been cooled a long age In the deep-delved earth, Tasting of flora and the country green, Dance and Provencel song, and sun-burnt mirth. O, for a beaker full of the warm south, Full of the true, the blushful hypocrine, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth, That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim. Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves has never known. The weariness, the fever, and the fret here, Where men sit and hear each other groan, Where palsy shakes a few sad, last-gray hairs, Where youth grows pale and spectre thin, and dies. Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs, Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new love pine at them. Beyond to-morrow. Away, away, for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards. All ready with thee, tender is the night, And happily the queen moon is on her throne, Clustered around by all her starry phase. But here there is no light. Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through vergerous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But in embalmed darkness guess each sweet, Where with the seasonable month and dows, The grass, the thicket, and the fruit tree wild, White hawthorn and the pastoral eglentine, Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves, And mid-may's eldest child, the coming musk-rose, Full of dewy wine, the murmurous haunt Of flies on summer eaves. Darkling I listen, and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful death, Called him soft names and many amused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath. Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy. Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain, To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death immortal bird, No hungry generations tread thee down, The voice I hear this passing night Was heard in ancient days by emperor and clown. Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn. The same that oft times hath charmed magic casements Opening on the foam of perilous seas In fairy lands forlorn, forlorn. The very word is like a bell to toll me back from thee To my soul self. Adieu, the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do deceiving elf. Adieu, adieu, by plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows over the still stream Up the hillside, and now tis buried deep In the next valley glades. Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music. Do I wake, or sleep?