ENDYMION:
A Poetic Romance.
BY JOHN KEATS.
“THE STRETCHED METRE OF AN ANTIQUE SONG.”
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR TAYLOR AND HESSEY,
93, FLEET STREET.
1818.
INSCRIBEDTO THE MEMORYOFTHOMAS CHATTERTON.
PREFACE.
Knowing within myself the manner inwhich this Poem has been produced, itis not without a feeling of regret that Imake it public.
What manner I mean, will be quiteclear to the reader, who must soon perceivegreat inexperience, immaturity,and every error denoting a feverish attempt,rather than a deed accomplished.The two first books, and indeed the twolast, I feel sensible are not of such completionas to warrant their passing thepress; nor should they if I thought ayear's castigation would do them anygood;–it will not: the foundations aretoo sandy. It is just that this youngstershould die away: a sad thought for me,if I had not some hope that while it isdwindling I may be plotting, and fittingmyself for verses fit to live.
This may be speaking too presumptuously,and may deserve a punishment:but no feeling man will be forward toinflict it: he will leave me alone, withthe conviction that there is not a fiercerhell than the failure in a great object.This is not written with the least atom ofpurpose to forestall criticisms of course,but from the desire I have to conciliatemen who are competent to look, and whodo look with a zealous eye, to the honourof English literature.
The imagination of a boy is healthy,and the mature imagination of a man ishealthy; but there is a space of life between,in which the soul is in a ferment,the character undecided, the way of lifeuncertain, the ambition thick-sighted:thence proceeds mawkishness, and allthe thousand bitters which those menI speak of must necessarily taste in goingover the following pages.
I hope I have not in too late aday touched the beautiful mythology ofGreece, and dulled its brightness: for Iwish to try once more, before I bid itfarewel.
Teignmouth,
April 10, 1818.
ERRATUM.
Page 108, line 4 from the bottom, for "her" read "his."
ENDYMION.
BOOK I.
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 ways10
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 musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms20
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immor