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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420952" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Epistle To My Brother George</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Full many a dreary hour have I past,<br>My brain bewildered, and my mind o'ercast<br>With heaviness; in seasons when I've thought<br>No spherey strains by me could e'er be caught<br>From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze<br>On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays;<br>Or, on the wavy grass outstretched supinely,<br>Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely:<br>That I should never hear Apollo's song,<br>Though feathery clouds were floating all along<br>The purple west, and, two bright streaks between,<br>The golden lyre itself were dimly seen:<br>That the still murmur of the honey bee<br>Would never teach a rural song to me:<br>That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slanting<br>Would never make a lay of mine enchanting,<br>Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold<br>Some tale of love and arms in time of old.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But there are times, when those that love the bay,<br>Fly from all sorrowing far, far away;<br>A sudden glow comes on them, nought they see<br>In water, earth, or air, but poesy.<br>It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it,<br>(For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it,)<br>That when a Poet is in such a trance,<br>In air her sees white coursers paw, and prance,<br>Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel,<br>Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel,<br>And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call,<br>Is the swift opening of their wide portal,<br>When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear,<br>Whose tones reach nought on earth but Poet's ear.<br>When these enchanted portals open wide,<br>And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide,<br>The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls,<br>And view the glory of their festivals:<br>Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem<br>Fit for the silv'ring of a seraph's dream;<br>Their rich brimmed goblets, that incessant run<br>Like the bright spots that move about the sun;<br>And, when upheld, the wine from each bright jar<br>Pours with the lustre of a falling star.<br>Yet further off, are dimly seen their bowers,<br>Of which, no mortal eye can reach the flowers;<br>And 'tis right just, for well Apollo knows<br>'Twould make the Poet quarrel with the rose.<br>All that's revealed from that far seat of blisses<br>Is the clear fountains' interchanging kisses,<br>As gracefully descending, light and thin,<br>Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin,<br>When he upswimmeth from the coral caves,<br>And sports with half his tail above the waves.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">These wonders strange he sees, and many more,<br>Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore.<br>Should he upon an evening ramble fare<br>With forehead to the soothing breezes bare,<br>Would he nought see but the dark, silent blue<br>With all its diamonds trembling through and through?<br>Or the coy moon, when in the waviness<br>Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress,<br>And staidly paces higher up, and higher,<br>Like a sweet nun in holy-day attire?<br>Ah, yes! much more would start into his sight&mdash; <br>The revelries and mysteries of night:<br>And should I ever see them, I will tell you<br>Such tales as needs must with amazement spell you.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">These are the living pleasures of the bard:<br>But richer far posterity's reward.<br>What does he murmur with his latest breath,<br>While his proud eye looks though the film of death?<br>&quot;What though I leave this dull and earthly mould,<br>Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold<br>With after times.&mdash;The patriot shall feel<br>My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel;<br>Or, in the senate thunder out my numbers<br>To startle princes from their easy slumbers.<br>The sage will mingle with each moral theme<br>My happy thoughts sententious; he will teem<br>With lofty periods when my verses fire him,<br>And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire him.<br>Lays have I left of such a dear delight<br>That maids will sing them on their bridal night.<br>Gay villagers, upon a morn of May,<br>When they have tired their gentle limbs with play<br>And formed a snowy circle on the grass,<br>And placed in midst of all that lovely lass<br>Who chosen is their queen,&mdash;with her fine head<br>Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red:<br>For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing,<br>Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying:<br>Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble,<br>A bunch of violets full blown, and double,<br>Serenely sleep:&mdash;she from a casket takes<br>A little book,&mdash;and then a joy awakes<br>About each youthful heart,&mdash;with stifled cries,<br>And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes:<br>For she's to read a tale of hopes, and fears;<br>One that I fostered in my youthful years:<br>The pearls, that on each glist'ning circlet sleep,<br>Must ever and anon with silent creep,<br>Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest<br>Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast,<br>Be lulled with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu!<br>Thy dales, and hills, are fading from my view:<br>Swiftly I mount, upon wide spreading pinions,<br>Far from the narrow bound of thy dominions.<br>Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air,<br>That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair,<br>And warm thy sons!&quot; Ah, my dear friend and brother,<br>Could I, at once, my mad ambition smother,<br>For tasting joys like these, sure I should be<br>Happier, and dearer to society.<br>At times, 'tis true, I've felt relief from pain<br>When some bright thought has darted through my brain:<br>Through all that day I've felt a greater pleasure<br>Than if I'd brought to light a hidden treasure.<br>As to my sonnets, though none else should heed them,<br>I feel delighted, still, that you should read them.<br>Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment,<br>Stretched on the grass at my best loved employment<br>Of scribbling lines for you. These things I thought<br>While, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught.<br>E'en now I'm pillowed on a bed of flowers<br>That crowns a lofty clift, which proudly towers<br>Above the ocean-waves, The stalks, and blades,<br>Chequer my tablet with their quivering shades.<br>On one side is a field of drooping oats,<br>Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats;<br>So pert and useless, that they bring to mind<br>The scarlet coats that pester human-kind.<br>And on the other side, outspread, is seen<br>Ocean's blue mantle streaked with purple, and green.<br>Now 'tis I see a canvassed ship, and now<br>Mark the bright silver curling round her prow.<br>I see the lark dowm-dropping to his nest,<br>And the broad winged sea-gull never at rest;<br>For when no more he spreads his feathers free,<br>His breast is dancing on the restless sea.<br>Now I direct my eyes into the west,<br>Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest:<br>Why westward turn? 'Twas but to say adieu!<br>'Twas but to kiss my hand, dear George, to you!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Keats">John Keats</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420952" data-title="Epistle To My Brother George de John Keats" data-description="Full many a dreary hour have I past,
My brain bewildered, and my mind o'ercast
With heaviness; in seasons when I've thought
No spherey strains by me could e'er be caught
From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze
On the far depth where sheeted l..."></div>
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