"-here she ceas'd her timid quest, when passion is both meek and wild! See, as they creep along the river side, “And greet thee morn and even in the skies.”. what if I should lose thee, when so fain Came on them, like a smoke from Hinnom’s vale; But in her tone and look he read the rest. And put her lean hands to the horrid thing: Sang, of delicious love and honey'd dart; And went all naked to the hungry shark; “If looks speak love-laws, I will drink her tears, She gaz'd into the fresh-thrown mould, as though While she the inmost of the dream would try. From the poor girl by magic of their light, better had it been for ever so, For them the Ceylon diver held his breath, As in a palsied Druid’s harp unstrung; The while it did unthread the horrid woof In hungry pride and gainful cowardice, And when she left, she hurried back, as swift Isabella Or The Pot Of Basil poem by John Keats. "I thought the worst was simple misery; Strange sound it was, when the pale shadow spake; And so she pined, and so she died forlorn, Had made a miry channel for his tears. better had it been for ever so, It was composed by John White Alexander who based his portrait on an earlier work done by William Holman Hunt. Her beauty farther than the falcon spies; "Red whortle-berries droop above my head, And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun, How she doth whisper to that aged Dame, XXXI. His heart beat awfully against his side; And to examine it in secret place: She kiss'd it with a lip more chill than stone, Among the dead: She withers, like a palm And sorrow for her love in travels rude. “In its ripe warmth this gracious morning time.” As the break-covert blood-hounds of such sin: And they had found Lorenzo's earthy bed; Lines From A Letter To John Hamilton Reynolds, Two Sonnets. Too much of pity after they are dead, If he could hear his lady’s matin-song, They could not in the self-same mansion dwell Without some stir of heart, some malady; They could not sit at meals but feel how well It soothed each to be the other by; They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep But to each other dream, and nightly weep. Shall move on soberly, as it is meet; "-"Good bye!" XLIX. In pity of her love, so overcast. As bird on wing to breast its eggs again; Three hours they labour’d at this travail sore; In the forest,-and the sodden turfed dell, what if I should lose thee, when so fain From his north cavern. Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk, To speak as when on earth it was awake, From mouth to mouth through all the country pass’d: “And many a chapel bell the hour is telling, "Calm speculation; but if you are wise, "You seem there in the quiet of content, For simple Isabel is soon to be Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry “And I should rage, if spirits could go mad; II. Great wits in Spanish, Tuscan, and Malay. He might not in house, field, or garden stir, Or the light whisper of her footstep soft; Lorenzo's flush with love.-They pass'd the water XXV. In the mid days of autumn, on their eves They told their sister how, with sudden speed, And as he thus over his passion hung, Isabella or The *** of Basil. XXXIII. Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside Until sweet Isabella's untouch'd cheek Gurgles through straiten'd banks, and still doth fan And filling it once more with human soul? And Isabella on its music hung: Came forth, and in perfumed leafits spread. And touch the strings into a mystery; A whole long month of May in this sad plight Than idle ears should pleasure in their woe. O where?”. Spirits of grief, sing not your “Well-a-way!” XV. “But there is crime–a brother’s bloody knife! Each third step did he pause, and listen'd oft Were they unhappy then?-It cannot be- And went all naked to the hungry shark; A straying from his toil? A thousand men in troubles wide and dark: That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and peel. "And yet I will, and tell my love all plain: That he, the servant of their trade designs, To Haydon, With A Sonnet Written On Seeing The Elgin Marbles, Teignmouth: "Some Doggerel," Sent In A Letter To B. R. Haydon. “My soul is to its doom: I would not grieve And cover’d it with mould, and o’er it set And poesied with hers in dewy rhyme: 11/15/2020 8:54:22 PM #.0.2# You Are Here: Isabella Or The Pot Of Basil Poem by John Keats - Poem Hunter Comments