Ditties of no tone.
KEATS.
Thou art not dead, O sweet lost melody,
Sung beyond memory,
When golden to the winds this world of ours
Waved wild with boundless flowers;
Sung in some past when wildernesses were,—
Not dead, not dead, lost air!
Yet in the ages long where lurkest thou,
And what soul knows thee now?
Wert thou not given to sweeten every wind
From that o’erburdened mind
That bore thee through the young world, and that tongue
By which thou first wert sung?
Was not thy holy choir the endless dome,
And nature all thy home?
Did not the warm gale clasp thee to his breast,
Lulling thy storms to rest?
And is the June air laden with thee now,
Passing the summer-bough?
And is the dawn-wind on a lonely sea
Balmy with thoughts of thee?
To rock on daybreak winds dost thou rejoice,
As first on his strong voice
Whose radiant morning soul did give thee birth,
Gave thee to heaven and earth?
Or did each bird win one dear note of thee
To pipe eternally?
Art thou the secret of the small field-flowers
Nodding thy time for hours,
—Blown by the happy winds from hill to hill,
And such a secret still?
Or wert thou rapt awhile to other spheres
To gladden tenderer ears?
Doth music’s soul contain thee, precious air,
Sleepest thou clasped there,
Until a time shall come for thee to start
Into some unborn heart?
Then wilt thou as the clouds of ages roll,
Thou migratory soul,
Amid a different wilder wilderness
—In crowds that throng and press,
Revive thy blessed cadences forgotten
In some soul new-begotten?
Oh, wilt thou ever tire of thy long rest
On nature’s silent breast?
And wilt thou leave thy rainbow showers, to bear
A part in human care?
—Forsake thy boundless silence to make choice
Of some pathetic voice?
—Forsake thy stars, thy suns, thy moons, thy skies,
For man’s desiring sighs?
Ah, not for mine, who sit with empty ears,
Dreaming of thee, to tears.
[Illustration: Flowering vines and leaves arranged along a horizontal
line.]
[Illustration: Keats]
SONNET.
AT A POET’S GRAVE.
Rather unto the Truth than unto one
Who sleepeth here is raised this monument.
To her he yields his tomb and is content.
Ye living singers, shower and wind and sun,
Days, nights, and flowers obey your fancy’s Art,
And mean your meanings, otherwhere; they own.
Here in this little sanctuary alone,
Meanings beyond the deepest poet’s heart.
Sing through the world; this is another world,
This poet’s empire, but he will not claim
One flower sprung from his heart, nor ever steep
One with his thoughts; his thoughts in truth are furled.
There was no need of him; hush up his fame,
Now earth has laid her docile child to sleep.
SONNET.
THE POET TO NATURE.
Non tengo nascosto
A te mio cor.
DANTE.
I have no secrets from thee, lyre sublime,
My lyre whereof I make my melody.
I sing one way like the west wind through thee,
With my whole heart, and hear thy sweet strings chime.
But thou, who soundest in my tune and rhyme,
Hast tones I wake not, in thy land and sea,
Loveliness not for me, secrets from me,
Thoughts for another, and another time.
And as, the west wind passed, the south wind alters
His intimate sweet things, his hues of noon,
The voices of his waves, sound of his pine,
The meanings of his lost heart,—this thought falters
In my short song—“Another bard shall tune
Thee, O my Lyre, to other songs than mine.”