Of the five odes of Keats, the Nightingale is perhaps the most perfect,and certainly the most imaginative.But the Grecian Urn is the finest, even though it has fancy rather than imagination, for never was fancy more exquisite.The most conspicuous idea--the emptying of the town because its folk are away at play in the tale of the antique urn--is merely a fancy, and a most antic fancy--a prank; it is an irony of man, a rallying of art, a mockery of time, a burlesque of poetry, divine with tenderness.The six lines in which this fancy sports are amongst the loveliest in all literature: the "little town," the "peaceful citadel,"--were ever simple adjectives more happy? But John Keats's final moral here is undeniably a failure; it says so much and means so little.The Ode to Autumn is an exterior ode, and not in so high a rank, but lovely and perfect.The Psyche I love the least, because its fancy is rather weak and its sentiment effusive.It has a touch of the deadly sickliness of Endymion.None the less does it remain just within the group of the really fine odes of English poets.The eloquent Melancholy more narrowly escapes exclusion from that group.
End of Project Gutenberg Etext of Flower of the Mind, by Alice Meynell More below...
LATER POEMS
Contents:
The Shepherdess "I am the Way" Via, et Veritas, et Vita Why wilt Thou Chide? The Lady Poverty The Fold Cradle-song at Twilight The Roaring Frost Parentage The Modern Mother West Wind in Winter November Blue Chimes Unto us a Son is given A Dead Harvest The Two Poets A Poet's Wife Veneration of Images At Night
THE SHEPHERDESS
She walks--the lady of my delight - A shepherdess of sheep.Her flocks are thoughts.She keeps them white; She guards them from the steep.She feeds them on the fragrant height, And folds them in for sleep.
She roams maternal hills and bright, Dark valleys safe and deep.Into that tender breast at night The chastest stars may peep.She walks--the lady of my delight - A shepherdess of sheep.
She holds her little thoughts in sight, Though gay they run and leap.She is so circumspect and right; She has her soul to keep.She walks--the lady of my delight - A shepherdess of sheep.
"I AM THE WAY"
Thou art the Way.Hadst Thou been nothing but the goal, I cannot say If Thou hadst ever met my soul.
I cannot see - I, child of process--if there lies An end for me, Full of repose, full of replies.
I'll not reproach The way that goes, my feet that stir.Access, approach, Art Thou, time, way, and wayfarer.
VIA, ET VERITAS, ET VITA
"You never attained to Him?" "If to attain Be to abide, then that may be." "Endless the way, followed with how much pain!" "The way was He."
"WHY WILT THOU CHIDE?"
Why wilt thou chide, Who hast attained to be denied? Oh learn, above All price is my refusal, Love.My sacred Nay Was never cheapened by the way.Thy single sorrow crowns thee lord Of an unpurchasable word.
Oh strong, Oh pure! As Yea makes happier loves secure, I vow thee this Unique rejection of a kiss.I guard for thee This jealous sad monopoly.I seal this honour thine.None dare Hope for a part in thy despair.
THE LADY POVERTY
The Lady Poverty was fair: But she has lost her looks of late, With change of times and change of air.Ah slattern, she neglects her hair, Her gown, her shoes.She keeps no state As once when her pure feet were bare.
Or--almost worse, if worse can be - She scolds in parlours; dusts and trims, Watches and counts.Oh, is this she Whom Francis met, whose step was free, Who with Obedience carolled hymns, In Umbria walked with Chastity?
Where is her ladyhood? Not here, Not among modern kinds of men; But in the stony fields, where clear Through the thin trees the skies appear; In delicate spare soil and fen, And slender landscape and austere.
THE FOLD
BEHOLD, The time is now! Bring back, bring back Thy flocks of fancies, wild of whim.Oh lead them from the mountain-track - Thy frolic thoughts untold.Oh bring them in--the fields grow dim - And let me be the fold.
Behold, The time is now! Call in, O call Thy posturing kisses gone astray For scattered sweets.Gather them all To shelter from the cold.Throng them together, close and gay, And let me be the fold!
CRADLE-SONG AT TWILIGHT
The child not yet is lulled to rest.Too young a nurse, the slender Night So laxly holds him to her breast That throbs with flight.
He plays with her and will not sleep.For other playfellows she sighs; An unmaternal fondness keep Her alien eyes.
THE ROARING FROST
A flock of winds came winging from the North, Strong birds with fighting pinions driving forth With a resounding call!
Where will they close their wings and cease their cries - Between what warming seas and conquering skies - And fold, and fall?
PARENTAGE
