Saturday's Good Reading: "Imitation of Spencer" by John Keats (in English)

 

What more felicity can fall to creature

Than to enjoy delight with liberty?

Fate of the Butterfly.—Spenser.

 

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Now Morning from her orient chamber came,

And her first footsteps touch'd a verdant hill;

Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame,

Silv'ring the untainted gushes of its rill;

Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distil,

And after parting beds of simple flowers,

By many streams a little lake did fill,

Which round its marge reflected woven bowers,

And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers.

 

There the kingfisher saw his plumage bright,

Vying with fish of brilliant dye below;

Whose silken fins, and golden scales' light

Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow:

There saw the swan his neck of arched snow,

And oar'd himself along with majesty;

Sparkled his jetty eyes; his feet did show

Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony,

And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously.

 

Ah! could I tell the wonders of an isle

That in that fairest lake had placed been,

I could e'en Dido of her grief beguile;

Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen:

For sure so fair a place was never seen,

Of all that ever charm'd romantic eye:

It seem'd an emerald in the silver sheen

Of the bright waters; or as when on high,

Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the cœrulean sky.

 

And all around it dipp'd luxuriously

Slopings of verdure through the glossy tide,

Which, as it were in gentle amity,

Rippled delighted up the flowery side;

As if to glean the ruddy tears, it tried,

Which fell profusely from the rose-tree stem!

Haply it was the workings of its pride,

In strife to throw upon the shore a gem

Outvying all the buds in Flora's diadem.

 

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Good Readings: “La Belle Dame sans Merci”, revised version, by John Keats (in English)

Ah what can ail thee, wretched wight,

     Alone and palely loitering;

The sedge is wither’d from the lake,

     And no birds sing.

Ah what can ail thee, wretched wight,

     So haggard and so woe-begone?

The squirrel’s granary is full,

     And the harvest’s done.

I see a lilly on thy brow,

     With anguish moist and fever dew;

And on thy cheek a fading rose

     Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads

     Full beautiful, a fairy’s child;

Her hair was long, her foot was light,

     And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,

     And nothing else saw all day long;

For sideways would she lean, and sing

     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 gaz’d and sighed deep,

And there I shut her wild sad eyes—

     So kiss’d to sleep.

And there we slumber’d on the moss,

     And there I dream’d, ah woe betide

The latest dream I ever dream’d

     On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,

     Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

Who cry’d—”Le belle Dame sans mercy

     Hath thee in thrall!”

I saw their starv’d lips in the gloom

     With horrid warning gaped wide,

And I awoke, and found me here

     On the cold hill side.

And this is why I sojourn here

     Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake,

     And no birds sing.

Good Readings: “La Belle Dame sans Merci”, original version, by John Keats (in English)

O what can ail thee, knight at arms,

     Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has wither'd from the lake,

     And no birds sing.

O What can ail thee, knight at arms,

     So haggard and so woe-begone?

The squirrel's granary is full,

     And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow

     With anguish moist and fever dew,

And on thy cheeks a fading rose

     Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,

     Full beautiful, a fairy's child;

Her hair was long, her foot was light,

     And her eyes were wild.

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.

I set her on my pacing steed,

     And nothing else saw all day long,

For sidelong would she bend, and sing

     A fairy's song.

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,

And there I shut her wild wild eyes

     With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep,

     And there I dream'd—Ah! woe betide!

The latest dream I ever dream'd

     On the cold hill's side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,

     Pale warriors, death pale were they all;

They cried—"La belle dame sans merci

     Hath thee in thrall!"

I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam

     With horrid warning gaped wide,

And I awoke and found me here

     On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here,

     Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,

     And no birds sing.