<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420975" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>I Stood Tip-Toe Upon A Little Hill</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I stood tip-toe upon a little hill, <br>The air was cooling, and so very still, <br>That the sweet buds which with a modest pride <br>Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, <br>Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems, <br>Had not yet lost those starry diadems <br>Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. <br>The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn, <br>And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept <br>On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept <br>A little noiseless noise among the leaves, <br>Born of the very sigh that silence heaves: <br>For not the faintest motion could be seen <br>Of all the shades that slanted o’er the green. <br>There was wide wand’ring for the greediest eye, <br>To peer about upon variety; <br>Far round the horizon’s crystal air to skim, <br>And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim; <br>To picture out the quaint, and curious bending <br>Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending; <br>Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves, <br>Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves. <br>I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free <br>As though the fanning wings of Mercury <br>Had played upon my heels: I was light-hearted, <br>And many pleasures to my vision started; <br>So I straightway began to pluck a posey <br>Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A bush of May flowers with the bees about them; <br>Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them; <br>And let a lush laburnum oversweep them, <br>And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them <br>Moist, cool and green; and shade the violets, <br>That they may bind the moss in leafy nets. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A filbert hedge with wildbriar overtwined, <br>And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind <br>Upon their summer thrones; there too should be <br>The frequent chequer of a youngling tree, <br>That with a score of light green breth[r]en shoots <br>From the quaint mossiness of aged roots: <br>Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters <br>Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters <br>The spreading blue bells: it may haply mourn <br>That such fair clusters should be rudely torn <br>From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly <br>By infant hands, left on the path to die. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Open afresh your round of starry folds, <br>Ye ardent marigolds! <br>Dry up the moisture from your golden lids, <br>For great Apollo bids <br>That in these days your praises should be sung <br>On many harps, which he has lately strung; <br>And when again your dewiness he kisses, <br>Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses: <br>So haply when I rove in some far vale, <br>His mighty voice may come upon the gale. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight: <br>With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white, <br>And taper fingers catching at all things, <br>To bind them all about with tiny rings. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Linger awhile upon some bending planks <br>That lean against a streamlet’s rushy banks, <br>And watch intently Nature’s gentle doings: <br>They will be found softer than ring-dove’s cooings. <br>How silent comes the water round that bend; <br>Not the minutest whisper does it send <br>To the o’erhanging sallows: blades of grass <br>Slowly across the chequer’d shadows pass. <br>Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach <br>To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach <br>A natural sermon o’er their pebbly beds; <br>Where swarms of minnows show their little heads, <br>Staying their wavy bodies ’gainst the streams, <br>To taste the luxury of sunny beams <br>Temper’d with coolness. How they ever wrestle <br>With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle <br>Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand. <br>If you but scantily hold out the hand, <br>That very instant not one will remain; <br>But turn your eye, and they are there again. <br>The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses, <br>And cool themselves among the em’rald tresses; <br>The while they cool themselves, they freshness give, <br>And moisture, that the bowery green may live: <br>So keeping up an interchange of favours, <br>Like good men in the truth of their behaviours. <br>Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop <br>From low hung branches; little space they stop; <br>But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek; <br>Then off at once, as in a wanton freak: <br>Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings <br>Pausing upon their yellow flutterings. <br>Were I in such a place, I sure should pray <br>That nought less sweet, might call my thoughts away, <br>Than the soft rustle of a maiden’s gown <br>Fanning away the dandelion’s down; <br>Than the light music of her nimble toes <br>Patting against the sorrel as she goes. <br>How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught <br>Playing in all her innocence of thought. <br>O let me lead her gently o’er the brook, <br>Watch her half-smiling lips, and downward look; <br>O let me for one moment touch her wrist; <br>Let me one moment to her breathing list; <br>And as she leaves me may she often turn <br>Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne. <br>What next? A tuft of evening primroses, <br>O’er which the mind may hover till it dozes; <br>O’er which it well might take a pleasant sleep, <br>But that ’tis ever startled by the leap <br>Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting <br>Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting; <br>Or by the moon lifting her silver rim <br>Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim <br>Coming into the blue with all her light. <br>O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight <br>Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers; <br>Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers, <br>Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams, <br>Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams, <br>Lover of loneliness, and wandering, <br>Of upcast eye, and tender pondering! <br>Thee must I praise above all other glories <br>That smile us on to tell delightful stories. <br>For what has made the sage or poet write <br>But the fair paradise of Nature’s light? <br>In the calm grandeur of a sober line, <br>We see the waving of the mountain pine; <br>And when a tale is beautifully staid, <br>We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade: <br>When it is moving on luxurious wings, <br>The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings: <br>Fair dewy roses brush against our faces, <br>And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases; <br>O’erhead we see the jasmine and sweet briar, <br>And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire; <br>While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles <br>Charms us at once away from all our troubles: <br>So that we feel uplifted from the world, <br>Walking upon the white clouds wreath’d and curl’d. <br>So felt he, who first told, how Psyche went <br>On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment; <br>What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips <br>First touch’d; what amorous and fondling nips <br>They gave each other’s cheeks; with all their sighs, <br>And how they kist each other’s tremulous eyes: <br>The silver lamp,—the ravishment,—the wonder— <br>The darkness,—loneliness,—the fearful thunder; <br>Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, <br>To bow for gratitude before Jove’s throne. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">So did he feel, who pull’d the boughs aside, <br>That we might look into a forest wide, <br>To catch a glimpse of Fawns, and Dryades <br>Coming with softest rustle through the trees; <br>And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet, <br>Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet: <br>Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fled <br>Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread. <br>Poor Nymph,—poor Pan,—how did he weep to find, <br>Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind <br>Along the reedy stream; a half heard strain, <br>Full of sweet desolation—balmy pain. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">What first inspired a bard of old to sing <br>Narcissus pining o’er the untainted spring? <br>In some delicious ramble, he had found <br>A little space, with boughs all woven round; <br>And in the midst of all, a clearer pool <br>Than e’er reflected in its pleasant cool, <br>The blue sky here, and there, serenely peeping <br>Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping. <br>And on the bank a lonely flower he spied, <br>A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride, <br>Drooping its beauty o’er the watery clearness, <br>To woo its own sad image into nearness: <br>Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move; <br>But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love. <br>So while the Poet stood in this sweet spot, <br>Some fainter gleamings o’er his fancy shot; <br>Nor was it long ere he had told the tale <br>Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo’s bale. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Where had he been, from whose warm head out-flew <br>That sweetest of all songs, that ever new, <br>That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness, <br>Coming ever to bless <br>The wanderer by moonlight? to him bringing <br>Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing <br>From out the middle air, from flowery nests, <br>And from the pillowy silkiness that rests <br>Full in the speculation of the stars. <br>Ah! surely he had burst our mortal bars; <br>Into some wond’rous region he had gone, <br>To search for thee, divine Endymion! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He was a Poet, sure a lover too, <br>Who stood on Latmus’ top, what time there blew <br>Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below; <br>And brought in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow <br>A hymn from Dian’s temple; while upswelling, <br>The incense went to her own starry dwelling. <br>But though her face was clear as infant’s eyes, <br>Though she stood smiling o’er the sacrifice, <br>The Poet wept at her so piteous fate, <br>Wept that such beauty should be desolate: <br>So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won, <br>And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queen <br>Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen! <br>As thou exceedest all things in thy shine, <br>So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine. <br>O for three words of honey, that I might <br>Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Where distant ships do seem to show their keels, <br>Phoebus awhile delayed his mighty wheels, <br>And turned to smile upon thy bashful eyes, <br>Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize. <br>The evening weather was so bright, and clear, <br>That men of health were of unusual cheer; <br>Stepping like Homer at the trumpet’s call, <br>Or young Apollo on the pedestal: <br>And lovely women were as fair and warm, <br>As Venus looking sideways in alarm. <br>The breezes were ethereal, and pure, <br>And crept through half closed lattices to cure <br>The languid sick; it cool’d their fever’d sleep, <br>And soothed them into slumbers full and deep. <br>Soon they awoke clear eyed: nor burnt with thirsting <br>Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting: <br>And springing up, they met the wond’ring sight <br>Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight; <br>Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss and stare, <br>And on their placid foreheads part the hair. <br>Young men, and maidens at each other gaz’d <br>With hands held back, and motionless, amaz’d <br>To see the brightness in each others’ eyes; <br>And so they stood, fill’d with a sweet surprise, <br>Until their tongues were loos’d in poesy. <br>Therefore no lover did of anguish die: <br>But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken, <br>Made silken ties, that never may be broken. <br>Cynthia! I cannot tell the greater blisses, <br>That follow’d thine, and thy dear shepherd’s kisses: <br>Was there a Poet born?—but now no more, <br>My wand’ring spirit must no further soar.</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> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <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=420975" data-title="I Stood Tip-Toe Upon A Little Hill de John Keats" data-description="I stood tip-toe upon a little hill, The air was cooling, and so very still, That the sweet buds which with a modest pride Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems, Had not yet lost those starry..."></div> </div> </div>

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