Endymion Awake

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Poussin's painting shows Endymion awake, kneeling to welcome the arrival of the moon goddess, while her brother the sun-god is just beginning his journey across the heavens in his golden chariot. The stagecraft of Poussin here is remarkable. The heavy blue curtains of night are opened to reveal the chariot of the sun lighting up the sky with various shades of yellow and gold.

The scene is revealed almost like a theatrical tableaux, and the dramatic intensity is palpable. The sheep and dog and the background point to Poussin illustrating the Endymion-as-shepherd version of the tale. The sleeping putti speak to the overall enchantment of Endymion and his environs and it is clear that we are in a mystical space. One of the most interesting things is the relationship between the figures of Selene and Endymion.

The youth falls to his knee in supplication before the moon goddess — this is not an act of romantic love, but religious adoration. Selene, with her half-moon diadem, returns the gaze, but it does not seem to be romantic or even erotic love she shares with the boy, but possession and comfort. To Poussin, the gods are magnificent and supernatural, but not unmoved by human passions.

Why not see, Far off, the shadows of his pinions dark, And stare them from me? But no, like a spark That needs must die, although its little beam Reflects upon a diamond, my sweet dream Fell into nothing—-into stupid sleep. And so it was, until a gentle creep, A careful moving caught my waking ears, And up I started: Therefore I eager followed, and did curse The disappointment. Now, thank gentle heaven! These things, with all their comfortings, are given To my down-sunken hours, and with thee, Sweet sister, help to stem the ebbing sea Of weary life. Thus ended he, and both Sat silent: She weeps, And wonders; struggles to devise some blame; To put on such a look as would say, Shame On this poor weakness!

At length, to break the pause, She said with trembling chance: Yet it is strange, and sad, alas! How a ring-dove Let fall a sprig of yew tree in his path; And how he died: Then wherefore sully the entrusted gem Of high and noble life with thoughts so sick? Why pierce high-fronted honour to the quick For nothing but a dream? Behold The clear religion of heaven!

Endymion, Book I, [A thing of beauty is a joy for ever]

Feel we these things? But there are Richer entanglements, enthralments far More self-destroying, leading, by degrees, To the chief intensity: All its more ponderous and bulky worth Is friendship, whence there ever issues forth A steady splendour; but at the tip-top, There hangs by unseen film, an orbed drop Of light, and that is love: And, truly, I would rather be struck dumb, Than speak against this ardent listlessness: What I know not: Beyond the matron-temple of Latona, Which we should see but for these darkening boughs, Lies a deep hollow, from whose ragged brows Bushes and trees do lean all round athwart, And meet so nearly, that with wings outraught, And spreaded tail, a vulture could not glide Past them, but he must brush on every side.

Oft have I brought thee flowers, on their stalks set Like vestal primroses, but dark velvet Edges them round, and they have golden pits: A wonder, fair as any I have told—- The same bright face I tasted in my sleep, Smiling in the clear well. My heart did leap Through the cool depth. Aye, such a breathless honey-feel of bliss Alone preserved me from the drear abyss Of death, for the fair form had gone again.

How sickening, how dark the dreadful leisure Of weary days, made deeper exquisite, By a fore-knowledge of unslumbrous night! And a whole age of lingering moments crept Sluggishly by, ere more contentment swept Away at once the deadly yellow spleen. Yes, thrice have I this fair enchantment seen; Once more been tortured with renewed life.

O that she would take my vows, And breathe them sighingly among the boughs, To sue her gentle ears for whose fair head, Daily, I pluck sweet flowerets from their bed, And weave them dyingly-—send honey-whispers Round every leaf, that all those gentle lispers May sigh my love unto her pitying!

Echo hence shall stir No sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noise Of thy combing hand, the while it travelling cloys And trembles through my labyrinthine hair. Whither are they fled? No more will I count over, link by link, My chain of grief: Have not I caught, Already, a more healthy countenance? By this the sun is setting; we may chance Meet some of our near-dwellers with my car. O Sovereign power of love! All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm, And shadowy, through the mist of passed years: For others, good or bad, hatred and tears Have become indolent; but touching thine, One sigh doth echo, one poor sob doth pine, One kiss brings honey-dew from buried days.

Swart planet in the universe of deeds! Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds Along the pebbled shore of memory! What care, though striding Alexander past The Indus with his Macedonian numbers? Though old Ulysses tortured from his slumbers The glutted Cyclops, what care? Brain-sick shepherd-prince, What promise hast thou faithful guarded since The day of sacrifice?

Or, have new sorrows Come with the constant dawn upon thy morrows? For many days, Has he been wandering in uncertain ways: Now he is sitting by a shady spring, And elbow-deep with feverous fingering Stems the upbursting cold: One track unseams A wooded cleft, and, far away, the blue Of ocean fades upon him; then, anew, He sinks adown a solitary glen, Where there was never sound of mortal men, Saving, perhaps, some snow-light cadences Melting to silence, when upon the breeze Some holy bark let forth an anthem sweet, To cheer itself to Delphi.

But, at that very touch, to disappear So fairy-quick, was strange! Bewildered, Endymion sought around, and shook each bed Of covert flowers in vain; and then he flung Himself along the grass. To him her dripping hand she softly kist, And anxiously began to plait and twist Her ringlets round her fingers, saying: Why it is thus, one knows in heaven above: But, a poor Naiad, I guess not.

I have a ditty for my hollow cell. Alas, he finds them dry; and then he foams, And onward to another city speeds. But this is human life: Where soil is men grow, Whether to weeds or flowers; but for me, There is no depth to strike in: I can see Nought earthly worth my compassing; so stand Upon a misty, jutting head of land—- Alone? O meekest dove Of heaven! O Cynthia, ten-times bright and fair! O be propitious, nor severely deem My madness impious; for, by all the stars That tend thy bidding, I do think the bars That kept my spirit in are burst—-that I Am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky!

How beautiful thou art! The world how deep! How tremulous-dazzlingly the wheels sweep Around their axle! Then these gleaming reins, How lithe! When this thy chariot attains Is airy goal, haply some bower veils Those twilight eyes? He heard but the last words, nor could contend One moment in reflection: Dark, nor light, The region; nor bright, nor sombre wholly, But mingled up; a gleaming melancholy; A dusky empire and its diadems; One faint eternal eventide of gems. Aye, millions sparkled on a vein of gold, Along whose track the prince quick footsteps told, With all its lines abrupt and angular: Chilly and numb His bosom grew, when first he, far away, Descried an orbed diamond, set to fray Old darkness from his throne: The mighty ones who have made eternal day For Greece and England.

A mad-pursuing of the fog-born elf, Whose flitting lantern, through rude nettle-briar, Cheats us into a swamp, into a fire, Into the bosom of a hated thing. And must he patient stay, Tracing fantastic figures with his spear? O woodland Queen, What smoothest air thy smoother forehead woos? Where dost thou listen to the wide halloos Of thy disparted nymphs? Through what dark tree Glimmers thy crescent? Within my breast there lives a choking flame—- O let me cool it among the zephyr-boughs!

A homeward fever parches up my tongue—- O let me slake it at the running springs! Dost thou now lave thy feet and ankles white? O think how sweet to me the freshening sluice! Dost thou now please thy thirst with berry-juice? O think how this dry palate would rejoice! If in soft slumber thou dost hear my voice, Oh think how I should love a bed of flowers!

Deliver me from this rapacious deep! Increasing still in heart, and pleasant sense, Upon his fairy journey on he hastes; So anxious for the end, he scarcely wastes One moment with his hand among the sweets: Onward he goes—he stops—his bosom beats As plainly in his ear, as the faint charm Of which the throbs were born. Half-happy, by comparison of bliss, Is miserable. Upon soft verdure saw, one here, one there, Cupids a slumbering on their pinions fair.

For on a silken couch of rosy pride, In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth Of fondest beauty; fonder, in fair sooth, Than sighs could fathom, or contentment reach: Hard by, Stood serene Cupids watching silently.

Three classical myths to keep you awake

I own This may sound strangely: This palace floor breath-air,—-but for the amaze Of deep-seen wonders motionless,—-and blaze Of the dome pomp, reflected in extremes, Globing a golden sphere. No howling sad Sickens our fearful ewes; and we have had Great bounty from Endymion our lord. Keats, who was not as fond of Shelley, did not follow his advice. They stept into the boat, and launch'd from land. Art thou wayworn, or canst not further trace The diamond path?

Hence Was I in no wise startled. So recline Upon these living flowers. Feast on, and meanwhile I will let thee know Of all these things around us. The which she fills with visions, and doth dress In all this quiet luxury; and hath set Us young immortals, without any let, To watch his slumber through.

Once more sweet life begin! But all were soon alive: Ah, miserable strife, But for her comforting! Who, who can write Of these first minutes? The unchariest muse To embracements warm as theirs makes coy excuse. A scowl is sometimes on his brow, but who Look full upon it feel anon the blue Of his fair eyes run liquid through their souls.

Endymion feels it, and no more controls The burning prayer within him; so, bent low, He had begun a plaining of his woe. But Venus, bending forward, said: Ah, smile not so, my son: For upon A dreary morning once I fled away Into the breezy clouds, to weep and pray For this my love: Those same dark curls blown vagrant in the wind: Those same full fringed lids a constant blind Over his sullen eyes: There is no trace Of this in heaven: So still obey the guiding hand that fends Thee safely through these wonders for sweet ends. Here must we leave thee.

But he revives at once: Forth from a rugged arch, in the dusk below, Came mother Cybele! Four maned lions hale The sluggish wheels; solemn their toothed maws, Their surly eyes brow-hidden, heavy paws Uplifted drowsily, and nervy tails Cowering their tawny brushes. Silent sails This shadowy queen athwart, and faints away In another gloomy arch. Wherefore delay, Young traveller, in such a mournful place? Art thou wayworn, or canst not further trace The diamond path? And does it indeed end Abrupt in middle air? Yet earthward bend Thy forehead, and to Jupiter cloud-borne Call ardently!

In the greenest nook The eagle landed him, and farewel took.

  • Meeting at Infinity.
  • Ulysses S. Grant: A Biography: A Biography (Greenwood Biographies).
  • Mrs. Pophams Library.
  • Dracula and Draculas Guest;

It was a jasmine bower, all bestrown With golden moss. And must they wane, Like melodies upon a sandy plain, Without an echo? Then shall I be left So sad, so melancholy, so bereft! Yet still I feel immortal!

James Abbott

Endymion Awake has 1 rating and 0 reviews. A disparate collection of mild, rather vague poems written under the spell of Keats. Endymion Awake: - [Joseph Hart] on uzotoqadoh.tk *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. A disparate collection of mild, rather vague poems written.

O my love, My breath of life, where art thou? High above, Dancing before the morning gates of heaven? No, no, too eagerly my soul deceives Its powerless self: I know this cannot be. O let me then by some sweet dreaming flee To her entrancements: Hither most gentle sleep! Thus spake he, and that moment felt endued With power to dream deliciously; so wound Through a dim passage, searching till he found The smoothest mossy bed and deepest, where He threw himself, and just into the air Stretching his indolent arms, he took, O bliss! The world has done its duty. Yet, oh yet, Although the sun of poesy is set, These lovers did embrace, and we must weep That there is no old power left to steep A quill immortal in their joyous tears.

Long time in silence did their anxious fears Question that thus it was; long time they lay Fondling and kissing every doubt away; Long time ere soft caressing sobs began To mellow into words, and then there ran Two bubbling springs of talk from their sweet lips. Why not for ever and for ever feel That breath about my eyes?

Ah, thou wilt steal Away from me again, indeed, indeed—- Thou wilt be gone away, and wilt not heed My lonely madness. Speak, my kindest fair! Is—-is it to be so? Who will dare To pluck thee from me? And, of thine own will, Full well I feel thou wouldst not leave me.

Still Let me entwine thee surer, surer—-now How can we part? Who, that thou canst not be for ever here, Or lift me with thee to some starry sphere? How he does love me! His poor temples beat To the very tune of love—-how sweet, sweet, sweet. Revive, dear youth, or I shall faint and die; Revive, or these soft hours will hurry by In tranced dulness; speak, and let that spell Affright this lethargy!

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I cannot quell Its heavy pressure, and will press at least My lips to thine, that they may richly feast Until we taste the life of love again. I love thee, youth, more than I can conceive; And so long absence from thee doth bereave My soul of any rest: Yet, can I not to starry eminence Uplift thee; nor for very shame can own Myself to thee. Ah, dearest, do not groan Or thou wilt force me from this secrecy, And I must blush in heaven. And wherefore so ashamed? Yet must I be a coward! But what is this to love?

O I could fly With thee into the ken of heavenly powers, So thou wouldst thus, for many sequent hours, Press me so sweetly. Sweet love, I was as vague as solitary dove, Nor knew that nests were built. Ere long I will exalt thee to the shine Of heaven ambrosial; and we will shade Ourselves whole summers by a river glade; And I will tell thee stories of the sky, And breathe thee whispers of its minstrelsy.

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My happy love will overwing all bounds! O let me melt into thee; let the sounds Of our close voices marry at their birth; Let us entwine hoveringly—-O dearth Of human words! There Has it been ever sounding for those ears Whose tips are glowing hot. The legend cheers Yon centinel stars; and he who listens to it Must surely be self-doomed or he will rue it: For quenchless burnings come upon the heart, Made fiercer by a fear lest any part Should be engulphed in the eddying wind. Now turn we to our former chroniclers. No, he had felt too much for such harsh jars: Moreover too, Fish-semblances, of green and azure hue, Ready to snort their streams.

Then the spur Of the old bards to mighty deeds: Now I have tasted her sweet soul to the core All other depths are shallow: My silent thoughts are echoing from these shells; Or they are but the ghosts, the dying swells Of noises far away?

Endymion...A Thing of Beauty by John Keats (read by Tom O'Bedlam)

What melodies are these? They sound as through the whispering of trees, Not native in such barren vaults. Great Dian, why, Why didst thou hear her prayer? O that I Were rippling round her dainty fairness now, Circling about her waist, and striving how To entice her to a dive! O that her shining hair was in the sun, And I distilling from it thence to run In amorous rillets down her shrinking form! Fair maid, be pitiful to my great woe. And is it true—- Away, away, or I shall dearly rue My very thoughts: Fresh breezes, bowery lawns, and innocent floods, Ripe fruits, and lonely couch, contentment gave; But ever since I heedlessly did lave In thy deceitful stream, a panting glow Grew strong within me: Stifle thine heart no more;—-nor be afraid Of angry powers: O let me pour A dewy balm upon them!

Dear maiden, steal Blushing into my soul, and let us fly These dreary caverns for the open sky. Dian stands Severe before me: On the verge Of that dark gulph he wept, and said: More suddenly than doth a moment go, The visions of the earth were gone and fled—- He saw the giant sea above his head. Yet few of these far majesties, ah, few!

Have bared their operations to this globe—- Few, who with gorgeous pageantry enrobe Our piece of heaven—-whose benevolence Shakes hand with our own Ceres; every sense Filling with spiritual sweets to plenitude, As bees gorge full their cells. When thy gold breath is misting in the west, She unobserved steals unto her throne, And there she sits most meek and most alone; As if she had not pomp subservient; As if thine eye, high Poet!

Thou dost bless every where, with silver lip Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping kine, Couched in thy brightness, dream of fields divine: Innumerable mountains rise, and rise, Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes; And yet thy benediction passeth not One obscure hiding-place, one little spot Where pleasure may be sent: What far abode Of green or silvery bower doth enshrine Such utmost beauty?

Alas, thou dost pine For one as sorrowful: Where dost thou sigh? O, not so idle: Where will the splendor be content to reach? A cold leaden awe These secrets struck into him; and unless Dian had chaced away that heaviness, He might have died: No tumbling water ever spake romance, But when my eyes with thine thereon could dance: No woods were green enough, no bower divine, Until thou liftedst up thine eyelids fine: No melody was like a passing spright If it went not to solemnize thy reign. O what a wild and harmonized tune My spirit struck from all the beautiful!

On some bright essence could I lean, and lull Myself to immortality: She came, and thou didst fade, and fade away—- Yet not entirely; no, thy starry sway Has been an under-passion to this hour. Now I begin to feel thine orby power Is coming fresh upon me: O be kind, Keep back thine influence, and do not blind My sovereign vision. Now shall I lay my head In peace upon my watery pillow: Melissa T marked it as to-read May 12, Marcie marked it as to-read May 12, Stacy Robinson marked it as to-read May 12, Marylynn added it May 14, Michelle marked it as to-read May 14, Damian sterling marked it as to-read May 14, Benjamin marked it as to-read May 14, Butterflyshines marked it as to-read May 14, Renee Williams marked it as to-read May 14, Audiodna marked it as to-read May 18, Jessie Rivas marked it as to-read Aug 08, There are no discussion topics on this book yet.

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