Poet's corner No. 27

'Tis " the witching time of night", 

Orbed is the moon and bright, 

And the stars they glisten, glisten, 

Seeming with bright eyes to listen — 

For what listen they? 

For a song and for a charm, 

See they glisten in alarm, 

And the moon is waxing warm 

To hear what I shall say. 

Moon! keep wide thy golden ears — 

Hearken, stars! and hearken, spheres! 

Hearken, thou eternal sky! 

I sing an infant's lullaby, 

A pretty lullaby. 

Listen, listen, listen, listen, 

Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten, 

And hear my lullaby! 

Though the rushes that will make 

Its cradle still are in the lake; 

Though the linen then that will be 

Its swathe, is on the cotton tree; 

Though the woollen that will keep 

It warm is on the silly sheep — 

Listen, stars' light, listen, listen, 

Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten, 

And hear my lullaby! 

Child, I see thee! Child, I've found thee 

Midst of the quiet all around thee! 

Child, I see thee! Child, I spy thee! 

And thy mother sweet is nigh thee! 

Child, I know thee! Child no more, 

But a Poet evermore! 

See, see, the lyre, the lyre, 

In a flame of fire, 

Upon the little cradle's top 

Flaring, flaring, flaring, 

Past the eyesight's bearing. 

Awake it from its sleep, 

And see if it can keep 

Its eyes upon the blaze — 

Amaze, amaze! 

It stares, it stares, it stares, 

It dares what no one dares! 

It lifts its little hand into the flame 

Unharmed, and on the strings 

Paddles a little tune, and sings, 

With dumb endeavour sweetly — 

Bard art thou completely! 

Little child 

O' th' western wild, 

Bard art thou completely! 

Sweetly with dumb endeavour, 

A Poet now or never, 

Little child 

O' the western wild, 

A Poet now or never!

John Keats 

'Tis the Witching Time of Night

Poet's corner No. 22

O what can ail thee, knight at arms,

Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has wither'd from the lake,

And no birds sing.

O What can ail thee, knight at arms,

So haggard and so woe-begone?

The squirrel's granary is full,

And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow

With anguish moist and fever dew,

And on thy cheeks a fading rose

Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,

Full beautiful, a fairy's child;

Her hair was long, her foot was light,

And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;

She look'd at me as she did love,

And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long,

For sidelong would she bend, and sing

A fairy's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,

And honey wild, and manna dew,

And sure in language strange she said—

I love thee true.

She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore,

And there I shut her wild wild eyes

With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep,

And there I dream'd—Ah! woe betide!

The latest dream I ever dream'd

On the cold hill's side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,

Pale warriors, death pale were they all;

They cried—"La belle dame sans merci

Hath thee in thrall!"

I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam

With horrid warning gaped wide,

And I awoke and found me here

On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here,

Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,

And no birds sing.

John Keats

La Belle Dame Sans Merci 

Happy Birthday John.

Dear John

Dear John, 

at last, I went to see your house and you know, I left my heart in Hampstead...

(sorry for the blurry pictures, I have many talents but photography isn't one of them)

Poet's corner No.16

"Physician Nature! let my spirit blood! 

O ease my heart of verse and let me rest; 

Throw me upon thy tripod, till the flood 

Of stifling numbers ebbs from my full breast.

A theme! a theme! Great Nature! give a theme;

Let me begin my dream. 

I come—I see thee, as thou standest there, 

Beckon me out into the wintry air. 

Ah! dearest love, sweet home of all my fears

And hopes and joys and panting miseries,— 

To-night, if I may guess, thy beauty wears

A smile of such delight, As brilliant and as bright, 

As when with ravished, aching, vassal eyes, 

Lost in a soft amaze, I gaze, I gaze! 

Who now, with greedy looks, eats up my feast?

What stare outfaces now my silver moon! 

Ah! keep that hand unravished at the least; 

Let, let the amorous burn—

 But, prithee, do not turn

 The current of your heart from me so soon: 

O save, in charity, 

The quickest pulse for me. 

Save it for me, sweet love! though music breathe 

Voluptuous visions into the warm air, 

Though swimming through the dance’s dangerous wreath, 

Be like an April day,

 Smiling and cold and gay,

 A temperate lily, temperate as fair; 

Then, heaven! there will be 

A warmer June for me. 

Why this, you’ll say—my Fanny!—is not true;

 Put your soft hand upon your snowy side, 

Where the heart beats: confess—'tis nothing new - 

Must not a woman be

A feather on the sea, 

Swayed to and fro by every wind and tide? 

Of as uncertain speed As blow-ball from the mead?

I know it—and to know it is despair

To one who loves you as I love, sweet Fanny, 

Whose heart goes fluttering for you every where,

Nor when away you roam,

Dare keep its wretched home: 

Love, love alone, has pains severe and many; 

Then, loveliest! keep me free 

From torturing jealousy. 

Ah! if you prize my subdued soul above 

The poor, the fading, brief pride of an hour:

 Let none profane my Holy See of Love, 

Or with a rude hand break 

The sacramental cake: 

Let none else touch the just new-budded flower;

 If not—may my eyes close, 

Love, on their last repose!"

John Keats

To Fanny

Poet's corner No.12

I cry your mercy—pity—love!—aye, love!

   Merciful love that tantalizes not,

One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love,

   Unmasked, and being seen—without a blot!

O! let me have thee whole,—all—all—be mine!

   That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest

Of love, your kiss,—those hands, those eyes divine,

   That warm, white, lucent, million-pleasured breast,

Yourself—your soul—in pity give me all,

   Withhold no atom’s atom or I die

Or living on perhaps, your wretched thrall,

   Forget, in the mist of idle misery,

Life’s purposes,—the palate of my mind

   Losing its gust, and my ambition blind!

John Keats

I cry your mercy—pity—love!—aye, love!

Poet's corner No.5

"...Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? 

        Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— 

    While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 

        And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue."

    

John Keats 

To Autumn

...

Lettera XXVI

Dolcissima Fanny,

temi a volte che io non ti ami quanto vorresti? Mia cara fanciulla, ti amo sempre, sempre e senza riserve. Più ti conosco e più ti amo. In ogni caso - anche le mie gelosie non sono che angosce d'amore; nell'accesso più violento avrei voluto morire per te. Ti ho vessata troppo. Ma per amore! Posso forse evitarlo? Tu sei sempre nuova. Il tuo ultimo bacio è sempre il più dolce, l'ultimo sorriso il più radioso, l'ultimo gesto il più leggiadro. Quando ieri sei passata sotto la mia finestra, ero colmo d'ammirazione come se ti vedessi per la prima volta. Una volta hai espresso il rammarico che io amassi solamente la tua bellezza. Non ho dunque altro da amare in te? Non vedo forse un cuore per natura alato, imprigionarsi con me? Nessuna prospettiva avversa è stata in grado di distogliere da me i tuoi pensieri per un solo momento. Ciò potrebbe essere motivo di dolore oltre che di gioia - ma di questo non voglio parlare. Anche se non mi amassi io non potrei non nutrire per te una devozione totale: quanto più profonda devo dunque sentirla, sapendo che mi ami. Mai una mente più inappagata ed inquieta della mia fu posta in un corpo troppo piccolo per contenerla. Mai ho sentito la mia mente risposare con gioia totale e serena su alcuna cosa - su alcuna persona tranne te. Quando se nella stanza, i miei pensieri non fuggono mai dalle finestra: tutti i miei sensi si concentrano su di te. [...]

il tuo affezionato John Keats

Bright star

” I almost wish we were butterflies and liv’d but three summer days — three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.” ( John Keats to Fanny Brawne )

Il termine “romanticismo” evoca immediatamente il sentimento . Facile da raccontare direte voi , basta costruire una situazione impossibile , una dichiarazione urlata con un meraviglioso ” ti amo ” declamato a gran voce e appassionate scene d’amore per mettere in scena le passioni e ottenere un film ” romantico “; il romanticismo , quello vero e non quello del senso comune , non appartiene però soltanto all ‘ esplosione e all ‘ impeto delle passioni espresse , ma si caratterizza altrettanto, o forse preminentemente di discrezione , silenzi , sguardi di pura adorazione . Riuscire a trasmettere sullo schermo sensazioni , dolcezza , dolore e lacrime in un sentimento tanto puro non è affatto semplice , soprattutto perchè il tutto poteva facilmente risolversi nella banalità di una frase da cioccolatini , dolce sì in quel primo momento ma facilmente dimenticabile dopo pochi secondi ; nelle mani esperte di Jane Campion , il risultato è una delle pellicole più delicate e poetiche che abbia mai visto .

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art...

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art--
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever--or else swoon to death.

Fulgida stella, come tu lo sei
fermo foss'io, però non in solingo
splendore alto sospeso nella notte
con rimosse le palpebre in eterno
a sorvegliare come paziente
ed insonne Romito di natura
le mobili acque in loro puro ufficio
sacerdotale di lavacro intorno
ai lidi umani della terra, oppure
guardar la molle maschera di neve
quando appena coprì monti e pianure.
No, eppure sempre fermo, sempre senza
mutamento sul vago seno in fiore
dell'amor mio, come guanciale; sempre
sentirne il su e giù soave d'onda, sempre
desto in un dolce eccitamento
a udire sempre sempre il suo respiro
attenuato, e così viver sempre,
o se no, venir meno nella morte.

(John Keats)