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From the Second Hyperion
Turning from these with awe, once more I raised My eyes to fathom the space every way ; The embossèd roof, the silent massy range Of columns north and south, ending in mist Of nothing, then to eastward, where black gates Were shut against the sunrise evermore.Then to the west I look’d, and saw far off An image, huge of feature as a cloud, At level of whose feet an altar slept, To be approach'd on either side by steps And marble balustrade, and patient travail To count with toil the innumerable degrees. Towards the altar sober-paced I went, Repressing haste, as too unholy there; And, coming nearer, saw beside the shrine One minist'ring; and there arose a flame.When in mid-way the sickening east wind Shifts sudden to the south, the small warm rain Melts out the frozen incense from all flowers, And fills the air with so much pleasant health That even the dying man forgets his shroud ;Even so that lofty sacrificial fire, Sending forth Maian incense, spread around Forgetfulness of everything but bliss, And clouded all the altar with soft smoke.
High Prophetess,' said I,' purge off, Benign, if so it please thee, my mind's film.'—
None can usurp this height,' return'd that shade, ‘But those to whom the miseries of the world
Are misery, and will not let them rest.
173 La Belle Dame sans Merci
O WHAT can ail thee, Knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering ?
And no birds sing.
O what can ail thee, Knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone ?
And the harvest 's done.
I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew ;
Fast withereth too.
I met a Lady in the meads,
Full beautiful, a faery's child ;--
And her eyes were wild.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long ;
A faery's song
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone ; She look'd at me as 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 wept and sigh'd full sore,
With kisses four.
And there she lulled me asleep,
And there I dream'd-Ah! woe betide !
On the cold hill-side.
I saw pale Kings, and Princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Hath thee in thrall !'
I saw their starved lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
On the cold hill-side.
And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Let us all ring Fancy's knell :
Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee