Calidore, a Fragment by John Keats

Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake; / His healthful spirit eager and awake / To feel the beauty of a silent eve, / Which seem'd full loth this happy world to leave; / The light dwelt o'er the scene so lingeringly.

He bares his forehead to the cool blue sky, / And smiles at the far clearness all around, / Until his heart is well nigh over wound / And turns for calmness to the pleasant green / Of easy slopes, and shadowy trees that lean / So elegantly o'er the waters' brim / And show their blossoms trim.

Scarce can his clear and nimble eyesight follow / The freaks and dartings of the black-wing'd swallow, / Delighting much, to see it half at rest, / Dip so refreshingly its wings, and breast / 'Gainst the smooth surface, and to mark anon, / The widening circles into nothing gone.

And now the sharp keel of his little boat / Comes up with ripple, and with easy float, / And glides into a bed of water-lilies:

Broad-leav'd are they, and their white canopies / Are upward turn'd to catch the heavens' dew.

Near to a little island's point they grew; / Whence Calidore might have the goodliest view / Of this sweet spot of earth. The bowery shore / Went off in gentle windings to the hoar / And light blue mountains: but no breathing man / With a warm heart, and eye prepared to scan / Nature's clear beauty, could pass lightly by / Objects that look'd out so invitingly / On either side. These, gentle Calidore / Greeted, as he had known them long before.

The sidelong view of swelling leafiness, / Which the glad setting sun in gold doth dress; / Whence, ever and anon, the jay outsprings, / And scales upon the beauty of its wings.

The lonely turret, shatter'd, and outworn, / Stands venerably proud; too proud to mourn / Its long lost grandeur: fir-trees grow around, / Aye dropping their hard fruit upon the ground.

The little chapel, with the cross above, / Upholding wreaths of ivy; the white dove, / That on the windows spreads his feathers light, / And seems from purple clouds to wing its flight.

Green tufted islands casting their soft shades / Across the lake; sequester'd leafy glades, / That through the dimness of their twilight show / Large dock-leaves, spiral foxgloves, or the glow / Of the cat's wild eyes, or the silvery stems / Of delicate birch-trees, or long grass which hems / A little brook. The youth had long been viewing / These pleasant things, and heaven was bedewing / The mountain flowers, when his glad senses caught / A trumpet's silver voice. Ah! it was fraught / With many joys for him: the warder's ken / Had found white coursers prancing in the glen:

Friends very dear to him he soon will see; / So pushes off his boat most eagerly, / And soon upon the lake he skims along, / Deaf to the nightingale's first under-song; / Nor minds he the white swans that dream so sweetly:

His spirit flies before him so completely.

And now he turns a jutting point of land, / Whence may be seen the castle gloomy, and grand:

Nor will a bee buzz round two swelling peaches, / Before the point of his light shallop reaches / Those marble steps that through the water dip:

Now over them he goes with hasty trip, / And scarcely stays to ope the folding doors:

Anon he leaps along the oaken floors / Of halls and corridors.

Delicious sounds! those little bright-eyed things / That float about the air on azure wings, / Had been less heartfelt by him than the clang / Of clattering hoofs; into the court he sprang, / Just as two noble steeds, and palfreys twain, / Were slanting out their necks with loosen'd rein; / While from beneath the threat'ning portcullis / They brought their happy burthens. What a kiss, / What gentle squeeze he gave each lady's hand!

How tremblingly their delicate ankles spann'd!

Into how sweet a trance his soul was gone, / While whisperings of affection / Made him delay to let their tender feet / Come to the earth; with an incline so sweet / From their low palfreys o'er his neck they bent:

And whether there were tears of languishment, / Or that the evening dew had pearl'd their tresses, / He feels a moisture on his cheek, and blesses / With lips that tremble, and with glistening eye, / All the soft luxury / That nestled in his arms. A dimpled hand, / Fair as some wonder out of fairy land, / Hung from his shoulder like the drooping flowers / Of whitest Cassia, fresh from summer showers: