The Complete Works: Poetry, Plays, Letters and Extensive Biographies. John Keats

      There was a naughty boy,

      And a naughty boy was he,

      He ran away to Scotland

      The people for to see-

      There he found

      That the ground

      Was as hard,

      That a yard

      Was as long,

      That a song

      Was as merry,

      That a cherry

      Was as red,

      That lead

      Was as weighty,

      That fourscore

      Was as eighty,

      That a door

      Was as wooden

      As in England-

      So he stood in his shoes

      And he wonder’d,

      He wonder’d,

      He stood in his

      Shoes and he wonder’d.

      Keen, fitful gusts are whisp’ring 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 brimfull of the friendliness

      That in a little cottage I have found;

      Of fair-hair’d Milton’s eloquent distress,

      And all his love for gentle Lycid drown’d;

      Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,

      And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown’d.

      This living hand, now warm and capable

      Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold

      And in the icy silence of the tomb,

      So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights

      That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood

      So in my veins red life might stream again,

      And thou be conscience-calm’d – see here it is -

      I hold it towards you.

      Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;

      For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye.

      Not like the formal crest of latter days:

      But bending in a thousand graceful ways;

      So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand,

      Or e’en the touch of Archimago’s wand,

      Could charm them into such an attitude.

      We must think rather, that in playful mood,

      Some mountain breeze had turned its chief delight,

      To show this wonder of its gentle might.

      Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;

      For while I muse, the lance points slantingly

      Athwart the morning air: some lady sweet,

      Who cannot feel for cold her tender feet,

      From the worn top of some old battlement

      Hails it with tears, her stout defender sent:

      And from her own pure self no joy dissembling,

      Wraps round her ample robe with happy trembling.

      Sometimes, when the good Knight his rest would take,

      It is reflected, clearly, in a lake,

      With the young ashen boughs, ‘gainst which it rests,

      And th’ half seen mossiness of linnets’ nests.

      Ah! shall I ever tell its cruelty,

      When the fire flashes from a warrior’s eye,

      And his tremendous hand is grasping it,

      And his dark brow for very wrath is knit?

      Or when his spirit, with more calm intent,

      Leaps to the honors of a tournament,

      And makes the gazers round about the ring

      Stare at the grandeur of the balancing?

      No, no! this is far off: – then how shall I

      Revive the dying tones of minstrelsy,

      Which linger yet about lone gothic arches,

      In dark green ivy, and among wild larches?

      How sing the splendour of the revelries,

      When buts of wine are drunk off to the lees?

      And that bright lance, against the fretted wall,

      Beneath the shade of stately banneral,

      Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and shield?

      Where ye may see a spur in bloody field.

      Light-footed damsels move with gentle paces

      Round the wide hall, and show their happy faces;

      Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens:

      Like those fair stars that twinkle in the heavens.

      Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry:

      Or wherefore comes that knight so proudly by?

      Wherefore more proudly does the gentle knight,

      Rein in the swelling of his ample might?

      Spenser! thy brows are arched, open, kind,

      And come like a clear sunrise to my mind;

      And always does my heart with pleasure dance,

      When I think on thy noble countenance:

      Where never yet was ought more earthly seen

      Than the pure freshness of thy laurels green.

      Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully

      Call on thy gentle spirit to hover nigh

      My daring steps: or if thy tender care,

      Thus startled unaware,

      Be jealous that the foot of other wight

      Should madly follow that bright path of light

      Trac’d by thy lov’d Libertas; he will speak,

      And tell thee that my prayer is very meek;

      That I will follow with due reverence,

      And start with awe at mine own strange pretence.

      Him thou wilt hear; so I will rest in hope

      To

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