And so she pined, and so she died forlorn,

      Imploring for her Basil to the last.

      No heart was there in Florence but did mourn

      In pity of her love, so overcast.

      And a sad ditty of this story born

      From mouth to mouth through all the country pass’d:

      Still is the burthen sung— “O cruelty,

      To steal my Basil-pot away from me!”

      A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

      Its loveliness increases; it will never

      Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

      A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

      Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

      Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing

      A flowery band to bind us to the earth,

      Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth

      Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,

      Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkened ways

      Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,

      Some shape of beauty moves away the pall

      From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,

      Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon

      For simple sheep; and such are daffodils

      With the green world they live in; and clear rills

      That for themselves a cooling covert make

      ‘Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,

      Rich with a sprinkling of fair muskrose blooms:

      And such too is the grandeur of the dooms

      We have imagined for the mighty dead;

      All lovely tales that we have heard or read:

      An endless fountain of immortal drink,

      Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.

      Nor do we merely feel these essences

      For one short hour; no, even as the trees

      That whisper round a temple become soon

      Dear as the temple’s self, so does the moon,

      The passion poesy, glories infinite,

      Haunt us till they become a cheering light

      Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,

      That, whether there be shine, or gloom o’ercast,

      They alway must be with us, or we die.

      Therefore, ’tis with full happiness that I

      Will trace the story of Endymion.

      The very music of the name has gone

      Into my being, and each pleasant scene

      Is growing fresh before me as the green

      Of our own vallies: so I will begin

      Now while I cannot hear the city’s din;

      Now while the early budders are just new,

      And run in mazes of the youngest hue

      About old forests; while the willow trails

      Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails

      Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year

      Grows lush in juicy stalks, I’ll smoothly steer

      My little boat, for many quiet hours,

      With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.

      Many and many a verse I hope to write,

      Before the daisies, vermeil rimm’d and white,

      Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees

      Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,

      I must be near the middle of my story.

      O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,

      See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,

      With universal tinge of sober gold,

      Be all about me when I make an end.

      And now at once, adventuresome, I send

      My herald thought into a wilderness:

      There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress

      My uncertain path with green, that I may speed

      Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.

      Upon the sides of Latmos was outspread

      A mighty forest; for the moist earth fed

      So plenteously all weed-hidden roots

      Into o’erhanging boughs, and precious fruits.

      And it had gloomy shades, sequestered deep,

      Where no man went; and if from shepherd’s keep

      A lamb strayed far a-down those inmost glens,

      Never again saw he the happy pens

      Whither his brethren, bleating with content,

      Over the hills at every nightfall went.

      Among the shepherds, ’twas believed ever,

      That not one fleecy lamb which thus did sever

      From the white flock, but pass’d unworried

      By angry wolf, or pard with prying head,

      Until it came to some unfooted plains

      Where fed the herds of Pan: ay great his gains

      Who thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were many,

      Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny,

      And ivy banks; all leading pleasantly

      To a wide lawn, whence one could only see

      Stems thronging all around between the swell

      Of turf and slanting branches: who could tell

      The freshness of the space of heaven above,

      Edg’d round with dark tree tops? through which a dove

      Would often beat its wings, and often too

      A little cloud would move across the blue.

      Full in the middle of this pleasantness

      There stood a marble altar, with a tress

      Of flowers budded newly; and the dew

      Had taken fairy phantasies to strew

      Daisies upon the sacred sward last eve,

      And so the dawned light in pomp receive.

      For ’twas the morn: Apollo’s upward fire

      Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre

      Of brightness so unsullied, that therein

      A melancholy spirit well might win

      Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine

      Into the winds: rain-scented eglantine

      Gave