Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,Alone and palely loitering?The sedge is wither'd from the lake,And no birds sing.Ah what can ail thee, wretched wight,So haggard and so woe-begone?The squirrel's granary is full,And the harvest's done.I see a lily on thy brow,With anguish moist and fever dew;And on thy cheek a fading roseFast withereth too.I met a lady in the meadsFull beautiful, a faery's child;Her hair was long, her foot was light,And her eyes were wild.I set her on my pacing steed,And nothing else saw all day long;And sideways would she lean, and singA faery's song.I made a garland for her head,And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;She look'd at me and she did love,And made sweet moan.She found me roots of relish sweet,And honey wild, and manna dew;And sure in language strange she said,I love thee true.She took me to her elfin grot,And there she gaz'd and sighed deep,And there I shut her wild sad eyes—So kiss'd to sleep.And there we slumber'd on the moss,And there I dream'd, ah woe betide,The latest dream I ever dream'dOn the cold hill side.I saw pale kings, and princes too,Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;Who cried—"La belle Dame sans merciHath thee in thrall!"I saw their starv'd lips in the gloamWith horrid warning gaped wide,And I awoke, and found me hereOn the cold hill side.And this is why I sojourn hereAlone and palely loitering,Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,And no birds sing.La Belle Dame sans merci.
And now he hears the voice of his Belle Dame ringing light across the garden; while he sits here, a prey to every distress, she is gaily gossiping with her next-door neighbour Brown. At once the unhappy Keats is tormented by a thousand jealous fears. Fanny is transferring her affection to Brown: of that he is quite certain. He rushes out: his black looks banish the much-amused Brown, and very nearly produce an immediate rupture between Fanny and himself. But after a few bitter words, he permits himself to be reassured—or is it cajoled?—and tells her, "I must confess that I love you the more, in that I believe you have liked me for my own sake and for nothing else." The poor boy, from a worldly point of view, has "nothing else" to offer.
The lovers' quarrel is over for the nonce. Visitors begin to drop in for the evening; there is music and singing in Brown's little drawing room. Keats is very fond of music, and can himself, though possessing hardly any voice, "produce a pleasing musical effect." He will sit and listen for hours to a sympathetic performer: but his ear, like all his faculties, is abnormally sensitive: and a wrong note will drive him into a frenzy. As the room grows fuller, he becomes restive. "The poetical character," he has observed, "is not itself—it has no character. When I am in a room with people, the identity of everyone in the room begins to press upon me so that I am in a little time annihilated."
In the light chit-chat of small talk and badinage he has no part: it bewilders and annoys him. Those about him—especially the women—seem to show up in their worst colours. Fanny herself appears, as he has described her at their first meeting, an absoluteminx. And presently he contrives to slip stealthily away, and seats himself in some quiet chamber, alone with the darkness and the May-scents of leaf and blossom. "I hope I shall never marry," he groans once more; "the roaring wind is my wife, and the stars through the window-panes are my children: the mighty abstract idea of Beauty I have in all things, stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness. I do not live in this world alone, but in a thousand worlds. No sooner am I alone, than shapes of epic greatness are stationed round me, and serve my spirit the office which is equivalent to a King's Bodyguard."
The young man now lights his candles, and takes up a familiar and favourite occupation;—the writing of a long letter to his brother George in America. This epistle is, as one might expect, almost entirely concerned with the art of poetry—what else has Keats to write about?—whether from the side of technique, or inspiration. He dwells on the adroit management of open and close vowels—he shows how "the poetry of earth is never dead;" he discusses the need of constant application to work, and how "the genius of poetry must work out its own salvation in a man." And meanwhile, as fitful strains of song reach him from the distance, and his roving gaze rivets itself upon a Wedgwood copy of a Grecian vase—one of Brown's chief treasures—the fleeting wafts of sound, and the lovely symmetry of shape, and the golden chain of figures, blend themselves into one harmonious whole of word-music.
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,Sylvan historian, who canst thus expressA flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shapeOf deities or mortals, or of both,In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?What men or gods are these? what maidens loath?What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheardAre sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leaveThy 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 hast not thou thy bliss,For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shedYour leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;And, happy melodist, unwearied,For ever piping songs for ever new;More happy love! more happy, happy love!For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,For ever panting, and for ever young;All breathing human passion far above,That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloy'd,A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.Who are these coming to the sacrifice?To what green altar, O mysterious priest,Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?What little town by river or sea-shore,Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?And, little town, thy streets for evermoreWill silent be; and not a soul to tellWhy thou art desolate, can e'er return.O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with bredeOf marble men and maidens overwrought,With forest branches and trodden weed;Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thoughtAs doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!When old age shall this generation waste,Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woeThan ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,"Beauty is truth, truth beauty"—that is allYe know on earth, and all ye need to know.Ode to a Grecian Urn.
The "shapes of epic greatness" throng closer and mightier around him. The storm and stress of the day's thoughts have utterly drained his small reserve of strength. Outworn by the vehemence of his own conflicting emotions, John Keats lays his aching eyes and dark brown head upon his arm as it rests along the table, and sinks into a dreamless slumber of exhaustion; while, a
"Happy melodist, unwearied,For ever singing songs for ever new,"
the nightingale chants on outside.