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Poem 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 loath 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 eye-sight 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 lillies:	
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 wild cat’s 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 loosened 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 ancles 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:	
And this he fondled with his happy cheek	
As if for joy he would no further seek;	
When the kind voice of good Sir Clerimond	
Came to his ear, like something from beyond	       
His present being: so he gently drew	
His warm arms, thrilling now with pulses new,	
From their sweet thrall, and forward gently bending,	
Thank’d heaven that his joy was never ending;	
While ’gainst his forehead he devoutly press’d	
A hand heaven made to succour the distress’d;	
A hand that from the world’s bleak promontory	
Had lifted Calidore for deeds of glory.	
Amid the pages, and the torches’ glare,	
There stood a knight, patting the flowing hair	
Of his proud horse’s mane: he was withal	
A man of elegance, and stature tall:	
So that the waving of his plumes would be	
High as the berries of a wild ash tree,	
Or as the winged cap of Mercury.	        
His armour was so dexterously wrought	
In shape, that sure no living man had thought	
It hard, and heavy steel: but that indeed	
It was some glorious form, some splendid weed,	
In which a spirit new come from the skies	       
Might live, and show itself to human eyes.	
’Tis the far-fam’d, the brave Sir Gondibert,	
Said the good man to Calidore alert;	
While the young warrior with a step of grace	
Came up, — a courtly smile upon his face,	       
And mailed hand held out, ready to greet	
The large-eyed wonder, and ambitious heat	
Of the aspiring boy; who as he led	
Those smiling ladies, often turned his head	
To admire the visor arched so gracefully	        
Over a knightly brow; while they went by	
The lamps that from the high-roof’d hall were pendent,	
And gave the steel a shining quite transcendent.	
	Soon in a pleasant chamber they are seated;	
The sweet-lipp’d ladies have already greeted	       
All the green leaves that round the window clamber,	
To show their purple stars, and bells of amber.	
Sir Gondibert has doff’d his shining steel,	
Gladdening in the free, and airy feel	
Of a light mantle; and while Clerimond	        
Is looking round about him with a fond,	
And placid eye, young Calidore is burning	
To hear of knightly deeds, and gallant spurning	
Of all unworthiness; and how the strong of arm	
Kept off dismay, and terror, and alarm	        
From lovely woman: while brimful of this,	
He gave each damsel’s hand so warm a kiss,	
And had such manly ardour in his eye,	
That each at other look’d half staringly;	
And then their features started into smiles	        
Sweet as blue heavens o’er enchanted isles.	
	Softly the breezes from the forest came,	
Softly they blew aside the taper’s flame;	
Clear was the song from Philomel’s far bower;	
Grateful the incense from the lime-tree flower;	        
Mysterious, wild, the far-heard trumpet’s tone;	
Lovely the moon in ether, all alone:	
Sweet too the converse of these happy mortals,	
As that of busy spirits when the portals	
Are closing in the west; or that soft humming	       
We hear around when Hesperus is coming.	
Sweet be their sleep. * * * * * * * * *	 

John Keats

John Keats's other poems:
  1. On Receiving a Laurel Crown from Leigh Hunt
  2. Specimen of Induction to a Poem
  3. Bards of Passion and of Mirth
  4. On Fame
  5. To (“Hadst Thou Liv’d in Days of Old…”)

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