‘She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept and sighed full sore: And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four. ‘And there she lulled me asleep, And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dreamed 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 starved 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 withered from the lake, And no birds sing.’ ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN’S HOMER MUCH have I travelled in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen: Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne: Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold; —Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific—and all his men Looked on each other with a wild surmise— Silent, upon a peak in Darien. TO SLEEP O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight, Shutting with careful fingers and benign Our gloom-pleased eyes, embowered from the light, Enshaded in forgetfulness divine; O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close, In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes, Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws Around my bed its lulling charities; Then save me, or the passed day will shine Upon my pillow, breeding many woes; Save me from curious conscience, that still lords Its strength, for darkness burrowing like a mole; Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed casket of my soul. THE GENTLE SOUTH AFTER dark vapours have oppressed our plains For a long dreary season, comes a day Born of the gentle South, and clears away From the sick heavens all unseemly stains. The anxious month, relieved from its pains, Takes as a long-lost sight the feel of May, The eyelids with the passing coolness play, Like rose-leaves with the drip of summer rains. The calmest thoughts come round us—as of leaves Budding; fruit ripening in stillness; autumn suns Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves; Sweet Sappho’s cheek; a sleeping infant’s breath; The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runs; A woodland rivulet; a poet’s death. LAST SONNET