Poetry John Keats (best thriller novels of all time txt) đ
- Author: John Keats
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Wherewith disturbâd, she utterâd a soft moan:
He ceasedâ âshe panted quickâ âand suddenly
Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone. XXXIV
Her eyes were open, but she still beheld,
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep:
There was a painful change, that nigh expellâd
The blisses of her dream so pure and deep
At which fair Madeline began to weep,
And moan forth witless words with many a sigh;
While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep;
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye,
Fearing to move or speak, she lookâd so dreamingly.
âAh, Porphyro!â said she, âbut even now
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,
Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:
How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear!
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,
Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!
Oh leave me not in this eternal woe,
For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go.â
Beyond a mortal man impassionâd far
At these voluptuous accents, he arose,
Ethereal, flushâd, and like a throbbing star
Seen mid the sapphire heavenâs deep repose;
Into her dream he melted, as the rose
Blendeth its odour with the violet,â â
Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows
Like Loveâs alarum pattering the sharp sleet
Against the window-panes; St. Agnesâ moon hath set.
âTis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet
âThis is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!â
âTis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat:
âNo dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine!
Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.â â
Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring?
I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine,
Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;â â
A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing.â
âMy Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride!
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest?
Thy beautyâs shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed?
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest
After so many hours of toil and quest,
A famishâd pilgrim,â âsaved by miracle.
Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest
Saving of thy sweet self; if thou thinkâst well
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.
âHark! âtis an elfin storm from faery land,
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:
Ariseâ âarise! the morning is at hand:â â
The bloated wassailers will never heed:â â
Let us away, my love, with happy speed;
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,â â
Drownâd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead:
Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be,
For oâer the southern moors I have a home for thee.â
She hurried at his words, beset with fears,
For there were sleeping dragons all around,
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spearsâ â
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.â â
In all the house was heard no human sound.
A chain-droopd lamp was flickering by each door;
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,
Flutterâd in the besieging windâs uproar;
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.
They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;
Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide,
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,
With a huge empty flagon by his side:
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:
By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:â â
The chains lie silent on the footworn stones;â â
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.
And they are gone: aye, ages long ago
These lovers fled away into the storm.
That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe,
And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form
Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm,
Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old
Died palsy-twitchâd, with meagre face deform:
The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,
For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold.
Upon a Sabbath-day it fell;
Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell,
That callâd the folk to evening prayer;
The city streets were clean and fair
From wholesome drench of April rains;
And, on the western window panes,
The chilly sunset faintly told
Of unmatured green valleys cold,
Of the green thorny bloomless hedge,
Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge,
Of primroses by shelterâd rills,
And daisies on the aguish hills.
Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell:
The silent streets were crowded well
With staid and pious companies,
Warm from their fireside oratâries;
And moving, with demurest air,
To even-song, and vesper prayer.
Each arched porch, and entry low,
Was fillâd with patient folk and slow,
With whispers hush, and shuffling feet,
While playâd the organ loud and sweet.
The bells had ceased, the prayers begun,
And Bertha had not yet half done
A curious volume, patchâd and torn,
That all day long, from earliest morn,
Had taken captive her two eyes,
Among its golden broideries;
Perplexâd her with a thousand things,â â
The stars of Heaven, and angelsâ wings,
Martyrs in a fiery blaze,
Azure saints and silver rays,
Mosesâ breastplate and the seven
Candlesticks John saw in Heaven,
The winged Lion of Saint Mark,
And the Covenantal Ark,
With its many mysteries,
Cherubim and golden mice.
Bertha was a maiden fair,
Dwelling in thâ old Minster-square;
From her fireside she could see,
Sidelong, its rich antiquity,
Far as the Bishopâs garden wall;
Where sycamores and elm-trees tall,
Full-leaved, the forest had outstript,
By no sharp north-wind ever nipt,
So shelterâd by the mighty pile.
Bertha arose, and read awhile,
With forehead âgainst the window-pane.
Again she tried, and then again,
Until the dusk eve left her dark
Upon the legend of St. Mark.
From plaited lawn-frill, fine and thin,
She lifted up her soft warm chin,
With aching neck and swimming eyes,
And dazed with saintly imagâries.
All was gloom, and silent all,
Save now and then the still foot-fall
Of one returning homewards late,
Past the echoing minster-gate.
The clamorous daws, that all the day
Above tree-tops and towers play,
Pair by pair had gone to rest,
Each in its ancient belfry-nest,
Where asleep they fall betimes,
To music and the drowsy chimes.
All was silent, all was gloom,
Abroad
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