 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
80
KEATS
Laughing thou said'st, 'Twere hell for thee to fail
In thy vast purpose, in thy brave design,
Ere thy young cheek, with passion's venomed wine
Flushed and grew pale, ah me! flushed and grew pale!
In thy vast purpose, in thy brave design,
Ere thy young cheek, with passion's venomed wine
Flushed and grew pale, ah me! flushed and grew pale!
Where is thy music now? In hearts that pine
O'erburdened, for the clamorous world too frail,
Yet love the charmèd dusk, the nightingale,
Not for her sweet sake only, but for thine.
O'erburdened, for the clamorous world too frail,
Yet love the charmèd dusk, the nightingale,
Not for her sweet sake only, but for thine.
Thy name is writ in water, ay, 'tis writ
As when the moon, a chill and friendless thing,
Passes and writes her will upon the tide,
And piles the ocean in a moving ring:
And every stagnant bay is brimmed with it,
Each mast-fringed port, each estuary wide.
As when the moon, a chill and friendless thing,
Passes and writes her will upon the tide,
And piles the ocean in a moving ring:
And every stagnant bay is brimmed with it,
Each mast-fringed port, each estuary wide.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |