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Morton Marcus: This is KUSP community sponsored radio for Santa Cruz, Monterey, and Salinas on 88.9 on your FM dial. Stay tuned for the Poetry Show. He said, "Chief Poet! and ye clouds of Albion, begetters of

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our deep, eternal theme, when through the old oak forest I am gone, let me not wander in a barren dream." He said: WHEN I HAVE FEARS THAT I MAY CEASE TO BE before my pen has

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gleaned my teeming brain, before high-piled books, in charactery, hold like rich garners the full ripened grain. When I behold, upon the night's starred face, huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, and think that I may never live to trace their

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shadows with the magic hand of chance. And when I feel, fair creature of an hour, that I shall never look upon thee more, never have a relish in the faery power of unreflecting love–then on the shore of the wide world I stand alone, and think till love

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and fame to nothingness do sink. His name was John Keats, and he died on April 23, two days ago 1821 at the tender age of 26, and has become one of the most well-known, certainly one of the most romantically thought of

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romantic poets in the English language. Instead, therefore, of a birthday for John Keats. I thought tonight since we've never done a program on him before, that I would have a death day remembrance of John Keats. And so tonight's program

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is the poetry of John Keats. No major poet has had a less propitious origin: Keats's father was a head stableman at a London livery stable and he married his employer's daughter and inherited the business. Mrs. Keats by all report was a

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strongly sensuous woman and a rather casual but affectionate mother to her five children. John was the firstborn, he was born in 1817. He was taken in and given friendship by Leigh Hunt and Richard Abby, who was an unimaginative,

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practical-minded businessman, took Keats out of school at the age of 15 and made him an apprentice to Thomas Hammond, a surgeon and apothecary. But Keats wrote poetry and largely self-educated, as many of you know, he became what would be-

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later on be called the Cockney Poet. Certainly one of the least propitious beginnings, as I said, of any English poet. Most English poets were wellborn, they had excellent educations, excellent upbringing, but Keats was certainly one of the poor

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poets in his origins. And in many ways, that's amazing because his language is among the richest language in English poetry. And I'd like to tell you what I mean by that, because it is why Keats to me is a great poet.

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In many instances, we mention Shelley and Keats in the same breath and even Byron, even Wordsworth for that matter and Coleridge, but none of those poets can match the intense sensuousness and listening beauty that one receives from

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hearing, or even speaking, a Keats poem. He is one of the most sensuous, he is one of the most evocative English poets, one of the most beautiful uses of words in our language. And I hope to show you that tonight. He was in love with the body.

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And what I hope to do if I give myself time and stop talking is in the second half of this program to read you the entire, "Eve of St. Agnes," and go on with what will be the focus of this first part of the show, which is to read at least three

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of the Odes that he wrote in 1919 [sic]. Now, if you've been paying close attention, you know that, in the spring of 1919 [sic], he would have been all of 24 years old, and yet it is in 1919 [sic], that almost all of Keats's great poems are written.

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Among them, all the Odes, he had been working on sonnets, and, of course, his, "Sonnet to Homer," the one I just read, "If I May Cease To Be," and several others are considered the great sonnets of the English language, but he really wanted to get the

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stanzaic form of the language down, and in many ways he wanted to revolutionize it. He felt that it wasn't adequate to the needs of English sonnetiers. But as he worked on those forms, it seems as though he branched out and started to do this new

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stanzaic form, which became the form of the Odes. And I would like to read some of them now, here from April 1819, right after he had finished the, "Sonnet to Sleep," is the "Ode to Psyche." And I will just read this to you. The poem which

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initiated the secret of the great- the sequence of the great odes that Keats wrote in the spring of 1819 is the, "Ode to Psyche," it is copied into the same journal letter, which included the, "Sonnet to Sleep," and several other sonnets as

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well as a comment upon endeavoring to discover better sonnet stanza forms than we have. It is therefore likely that Keats's experiments with sonnet schemes led to the development of the intricate and varied stanzas of his odes. He

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said that of all his poems up to that time, "Psyche is the first and only one with which I have taken even moderate pains. I have, for the most part dashed off my lines in a hurry. This I have done leisurely, this poem, I think it reads the more richly

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for it and will, I hope encourage me to write other things, in even a more peaceable and healthy spirit." And the story told by the Roman author Apuleius in the second century, Psyche was a lovely mortal, beloved by Cupid, the winged

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boy, son of Venus. After various tribulations imposed by Venus because she was jealous of Psyche's beauty, Psyche was wedded to Cupid, and translated to heaven as an immortal. Psyche has been looked at by Harold Bloom as really sort of a

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representation of the human soul and love, and let us see what we get out of this. This is the first Ode that he wrote called again: THE ODE TO PSYCHE, and she of course as an immortal is now a

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goddess. Oh Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung by sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, and pardon that thy secrets should be sung even into thine own soft-conched ear:

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Surely I dreamt today, or did I see the winged Psyche with awakened eyes? I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly, and, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, saw two fair creatures, couched side by side in deepest grass, beneath the

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whispering roof of leaves and trembling blossoms, where there ran a brooklet, scarce espied. Mid hushed, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed, blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, they lay calm-breathing, on the

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bedded grass. Their arms embraced and their pinions too. Their lips touched not, but had not bade adieu, as if disjointed by soft-handed slumber, and ready still past kisses to outnumber at tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: The winged boy I

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knew, but who wast thou, O happy, happy dove? His Psyche true! O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy. Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-regioned star, or

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Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky. Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, nor altar heaped with flowers, nor virgin-choir, to make delicious moan upon the midnight hours. No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet from chain-swung

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censer teeming. No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming. O brightest! though too late for antique vows, too, too late for the fond believing lyre, when holy were the haunted forest

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boughs, holy the air, the water and the fire. Yet even in these days so far retired from happy pieties, thy lucent fans, fluttering among the faint Olympians, I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. So let me be thy choir, and make a moan

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upon the midnight hours. Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet from swinged censer teaming. Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming. Yes, I will be thy priest and build a fane in some untrodden

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region of my mind, where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, instead of pine shall murmur in the wind: Far, far around shall those dark-clustered trees fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep. And thereby zephyrs,

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streams, and birds, and bees, the moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep. And in the midst of this wide quietness, a rosy sanctuary will I dress with the wreathed trellis of a working brain, with buds and bells and stars without a name.

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With all the gardener Fancy ever could feign, who breeding flowers will never breed the same: And they shall be for thee all soft delight that shadowy thought can win, a bright torch, and a casement ope at night, to let the warm Love in.

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And in many ways, though it is not to me nearly as vivid as several of the other odes, "The Ode to Psyche," really begins to define what is, or will be for us, had already been defined by Keats as his major themes, which are the difference between this

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mundane world where we grow old, where there is change, and the world of the eternal where things always remain eternal, and where they are immortal, where beauty will always remain the shining example to mankind for us to reach. And in the,

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"Ode to Psyche," the speaker who we will call in this case the poet, who has been walking in the woods. And he spies who he thinks, but of course it could be just a young man and young woman, two lovers lying drowsily next to each other, and he

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thinks he has spied Cupid and Psyche. And says, yes, I know, you know, Cupid, the winged boy, but you are a Goddess who has received no temples, who has received nothing that the ancient goddesses have received in way of recognition by

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mortals, so I will be thy worshipper, the builder of the temple, that is Keats as poet. And through his imagination, through his brain, he will create the world of Psyche, which is the world of the mortal transformed into the eternal.

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This is what he thought poetry did, it made the immortal into the eternal. Let's look at several more poems that do this. One of my favorites, it is so vivid and so wonderful is his famous, "Ode to a Grecian Urn," also written in 1819 in this

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wonderful teaming period of his when he wrote these great poems, which are really among- all of them and then some of the other sonnets and "Lamia" are among the greatest English poems ever written, and all done in 1819. In the "Ode to a Grecian Urn,"

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he looks at a Grecian urn, and he writes his description on it. It is not a Grecian urn, though, that he really sees in front of him. It seems to be a group of urns that have been made a composite in his mind, and this is just sort of a typical

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ancient Grecian Greek urn, and in it the theme of the immortal, of permanence, the permanence of art which is represented by the figures on this urn, are seen by and questioned by his transitory, very, very physical, very much part-of-this-world

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mind, again, this dichotomy of the other world and this world. And this urn with its sculpted reliefs of Dionysian ecstasies, panting young lovers in flight in pursuit, a pastoral piper under spring foliage, and the quiet celebration of communal

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pieties resembles parts of various vases, sculptures and paintings, but it existed in all its particulars only in Keats's imagination. In the urn, which captures moments of intense experience and attitudes of grace and immobilizes them in

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marble forever, Keats found the perfect correlative for his concern with a longing for permanence in the world of change that we all live in. The interpretation of the details with which he develops this concept, however, is hotly

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disputed all the way from the opening phrase and listen to this: He uses the word "still" here and the question is, is it used as an adverb or is it used as an adjective? That is, does it mean motionless, to be still or does it mean still to happen?

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I'll just read that line to just show you how his lines can work in two ways. "Thou still unravished bride of quietness," or is it, "Thou still unravished, the bride of quietness." In other words, the bride of quietness, the urn is

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still unravished, it is still virginal, or is it "still" meaning that it is motionless as all the figures that will be described on it are motionless. Keats is really worth anyone's reading and I would suggest that they do.

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Let me just go over some of the words you may not understand here. "Arcady," is a province of ancient Greece. "Tempe," is a beautiful valley in Greece, which has come to represent in many, many western poets supreme rural, rural beauty. "Attica,"

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was a region of Greece in which Athens was located and if you know your Greek, Attic Greek is what was spoken there. So, I think that may be all the words that may throw your ear. So, here is this very vivid and one of my favorite odes, "Ode on a

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Grecian Urn." The poet here is looking at this Grecian urn and commenting on what he sees. And all these years later, 170 odd years later, I think this poem still talks about the permanence we reach for and the body that everyday changes and moves

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towards dissolution. ODE ON A GRECIAN URN by tonight's subject, John Keats. Thou still unravished bride of quietness, thou foster-child of silence and slow time. Sylvan historian, who cannot thus

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express a flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape of deities or mortals, or of both, in Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What

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struggle to escape? Or pipes and timbrels on mad ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter. Therefore, ye soft pipes, play on. Not to the sensual ear, but more endeared, pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone. Fair

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youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare. Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve. She cannot fade, though thou has not thy bliss, forever wilt thou

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love, and she be fair! Ah, happy, happy boughs. That cannot shed your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu. And happy, happy melodist, unwearied, forever piping songs forever new. More happy love.

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More happy, happy love, forever warm and still to be enjoyed, forever panting and forever young. All breathing human passion far above, that leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyd, a burning forehead and a parching tongue.

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Who are these coming to it with a sacrifice? Oh what green altar, O mysterious priest, lead us thou that heifer lowing at the skies, and all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea shore, or mountain-built with

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peaceful citadel, is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets forevermore will silent be and not a soul to tell why thou art desolate, can ever return. Oh Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede of marble men and

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maidens overwrought, with forest branches and the trodden weed. Thou, silent form, does tease us out of thought as doth eternity, Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, thou shalt remain in midst of other woe than ours, a friend to

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man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty. That is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." That was John Keats's, "Ode to a Grecian Urn." And I would like to end this section with the reading of my favorite of the

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odes, besides "To Autumn" and that is his, "Ode to the Nightingale," the magical bird, in this case, not a Grecian urn, but the bird who represents the song of poetry, the song of immortality down through time. And in this case, again Keats

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enters the story and he is- sort of wakes or is he sleeping, he's unsure, or is he drowsed with some kind of drunkenness or even drugs? And what he says is, you know, his heart aches, you know, because he is trying in this poem to enter a sense of life

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that is beyond his life, in which he is, how shall I say, a part of this world and he cannot become part of the permanent world of the poem even though he's the writer of the poem. And in this poem, he tries to fly off with the nightingale to the

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world of immortality, and he can't do it. First he tries drugs, then he tries wine when he goes out "for a draught of vintage that hath been cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth." Then finally, he says that he will fly away with a

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bird himself in his imagination, again the imagination playing it and will close his eyes and just guide himself by sound. But then finally he finds he cannot do that, and the nightingale has flown away and he has been left in the world of men. So, here is

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John Keats's: ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, or emptied some dull opiate to

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the drains one minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk. 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, but being too happy in thine happiness, that thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees in some melodious plot of beechen green, and shadows

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numberless, singest of summer in full-throated ease. O, for a draught of vintage that hath been cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, tasting of Flora and the country green, dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth. O for a beaker

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full of the warm South, full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, with beaded bubbles winking at the brim and purple-stained mouth. That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, and with thee fade away into the forest dim.

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Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget what thou among the leaves hast never known, the weariness, the fever, and the fret here, were men sit and hear each other groan; where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, where youth grows pale,

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and spectre-thin, and dies. Where but to think is to be full of sorrow and leaden-eyed despairs where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, or new Love pine them beyond tomorrow. Away! away! for I will fly to thee not charioted by Bacchus

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and his pards but on the viewless wings of Poesy, though the dull brain perplexes and retards, already with thee! Tender is the night and haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne clustered around by all her starry Fays. But here there is

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no light and save what from heaven is with the breezes blown through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet nor what soft incense hangs up on the boughs, but, in embalmed darkness, guess each

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sweet wherewith the seasonable month endows the grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; white hawthorn and the pastoral eglantine; Fast fading violets covered up in leaves; and mid-May's eldest child, the coming musk-rose, full of dewy

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wine, a murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen, and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, to take into the air my quiet breath. Now more than ever

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seems it rich to die, to cease upon the midnight with no pain, while thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad in such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain– To thy high requiem become a sod.

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Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; the voice I hear this passing night was heard in ancient days by emperor and clown: perhaps the self-same song that found a path through the sad heart of Ruth,

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when, sick for home, she stood in tears amid the alien corn; the same that often times hath charmed magic casements, opening on the foam of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell to toll me back from thee

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to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well as she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades past the near meadows, over the still stream, up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep in the next

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valley-glades. Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music– do I wake or sleep? This is Mort Marcus once again tonight we're having a Death Day celebration for John Keats, the great English poet who died on

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February 23rd, 1821 at the age of 26. Some important announcement: KUSP is delighted to bring you, "The Importance of Being Earnest," the third in our series of live radio plays. Oscar Wilde's famous comedy will be broadcast on Sunday, March

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10th at 8pm, that is Sunday, March 10th at 8pm. "The Importance of Being Earnest," is produced by BJT Productions, who brought you, "Private Lives," and "The Man Who Came to Dinner," on KUSP. "Earnest" is Oscar Wilde's finest work and a

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masterpiece of English literature. This ruthless satire was so beautifully written that it has retained its validity of the present day. It is a classic ranking with Hamlet and Oedipus, but with many more laughs per minute, so mark your calendars

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for March 10th, Sunday evening at 8pm and "The Importance of Being Earnest." The cast includes Geoffrey Pullum, Billy Harris, Janet Dodson, Gail Rich, Paul Berman, Sue Clough and Alex Pickman. Tom Lehrer will host the production and following a

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live performance Mort Marcus, that's me, will talk about playwright and poet, Oscar Wilde. And most probably what will happen is most of the show- there will not be a Poetry Show on March 10th- most of the show will be taken up with, "The

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Importance of Being Earnest," if you have never heard it before, you will really love it. It is a delightful, delightful play with marvelous witty lines in it. And I'm sure that this group did such a great lot, a great job on, "Private Lives," and "The

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Man Who Came to Dinner," will just do a marvelous job that I'm looking forward to it. And I'll just make a few comments afterwards about Oscar Wilde which you may find interesting or not.

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Next week on the Poetry Show, Susan Freeman is the guest host of the Poetry Show. Join her for a preview of In Celebration of the Muse, a mega reading by Santa Cruz women writers to be held Friday, March 8th. Guests include the co-producer of the

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event Amber Coverdale Sumrall, and writers, Bernice Hendrick, Francis Hadfield, Claudia Sternbach, and Claire Braz-Valentine. They will read from their own writing and discuss In Celebration of the Muse, a sellout event, now in

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its 14th year, the oldest literary event in the county, it's really marvelous. Some of the people involved will be Claire Braz-Valentine, Maude Meehan, Ellen Bass, Adrienne Rich, Akasha Hull, Linda Fox, Gabriella Guiterrez, Shirley

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Anchetta, Ellen Train, a marvelous group of poets. You can see that on March 8th, but next week, you will be able to hear about Celebration of the Muse and meet some of the poets involved, some of them who have been involved for 14 years. On

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Thursday, this coming Thursday though, I do want you to mark something that is very important and has been given no publicity at all and that is a program on poetry that is going to be presented by KQED Channel Nine, San Francisco, at 8:30, probably

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till 11 or later, and it is called "The United States of Poetry," a Washington Square Films production directed by Mark Pellington and produced by Joshua Blum and Bob Holman. It is a five part series that will air in one night from 8:30 to

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11pm. And a part of it was filmed on location in Watsonville where, "The Song of Pajaro," in part one features our very own Jeff Tagami, the great Filipino-American poet from Watsonville and this program is excitingly filmed,

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wonderfully, imaginatively filmed and edited with the words of the poets going over the pictures or you're actually meeting them and they're speaking their words, but they have done wonders in connecting image with poem and I really

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have to say that Jeff's section is one of the most moving. The other poets who will be featured are Amiri Baraka, Rita Dove, Lou Reed, Derek Walcott, Joseph Brodsky, Czeslaw Milosz, Quincy Troupe, Leonard Cohen, CD Wright, Sandra Cisneros, Allen

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Ginsberg, Robert Creeley, Wanda Coleman, and many, many, many others. So, please put it down on your list. I will announce it before we leave tonight, KQED, Channel Nine this Thursday at 8:30pm. It is showing across the nation and it is called the

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"United States of Poetry" and our own Jeff Tagami, marvelous poet, will be in that first section. So, do tune in at 8:30 and catch this very exciting portrayal of what is going on, at least in part of, in American poetry today. I think that will

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be enough for right now, I will talk about what will be coming on later tonight at the end of the show, but right now, let us pod down Mr. [unidentified] who is playing the Chopin Nocturnes for us and get back to John Keats. And what I would like to

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read to you is what I think is one of the most erotic poems in the English language. And by erotic we mean sensual, and sensuous in language, and it shows you that no four letter words have to be used. This is a poem set in medieval times by

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Keats. It is his first successful poem- how shall I say, his first successful narrative poem and he finished it in March of 1819. Again, this is right before the great outpouring of the odes. Again, this is one of his great poems.

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It's very long and it is in Spenserian stanzas, very, very difficult to write, with very, very difficult rhyme scheme. But he tells this marvelous story, this narrative poem about these young lovers who are in the situation of feuding families,

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sounds like Romeo and Juliet, I'm sure that's where he got part of the idea. And it really is showing the heavenliness of the world, on one hand, the world in which you deny your body, the young sensuality of the young lovers, and the

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absolute physical grossness, which is so different, which is the warriors and the uncle in the dining hall. So, you get all of this sense but it is so physical. What it is about is the wonder of the physical world and I mean, you can feel the

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cold, you can feel the heat, you can see the bodies glowing in the candlelight. It is a marvelous poem. Let's see if I can read the whole thing. It's a great, great story. And it's a story not great because of the tale it tells, Porphyro sneaking

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into his love's chambers and watching her undress, and then making himself known to her, but it is marvelous because of the language, gives you so much atmosphere. And again, this is, as I said about Keats, the great poet of a language, a marvelous

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sense of evoking the physical world, making language come alive. So, here we go to, "St. Agnes Eve," that very, very cold day of January 21st. And we hear this: THE EVE OF ST. AGNES

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St. Agnes' Eve, ah, bitter chill it was. The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold, the hare limped trembling through the frozen grass and silent was the flock in woolly fold. Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told his rosary, and while his

00:39:43.210 - 00:40:00.500

frosted breath, like pious incense from a censer old, seemed taking flight for heaven, without a death, past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man, then takes

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his lamp, and riseth from his knees and back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, along the chapel aisle by slow degrees. The sculptured dead, on each side, seemed to freeze, emprisoned in black, purgatorial rails. Knights, ladies, praying

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in dumb oratries he passeth by, and his weak spirit fails to think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. Northward he turneth through a little door, and scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue flattered to tears this aged man

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and poor, but no, already had his deathbell rung. The joys of all his life were said and sung. His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve. Another way he went and soon among rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, and all night kept awake, for

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sinners' sake to grieve. That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft and so it chanced, for many a door was wide, from hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, the silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide, the

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level chambers, ready with their pride, were glowing to receive a thousand guests. The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, stared, were upon their heads the cornice rests with hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts.

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At length burst in the argent revelry with plume, tiara, and all rich array, numerous as shadows haunting faerily the brain, new stuffed, in youth, with triumphs gay of old romance. These let us wish away and turn, sole-thoughted, to one

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Lady there, whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, on love and winged St. Agnes' saintly care, as she had heard old dames full many times declare. They told her how upon St. Agnes' Eve, young virgins might

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have visions of delight. And soft adorings from their loves receive upon the honeyed middle of the night if ceremonies due they did aright. As, supperless to bed they must retire and couch supine their beauties, lily white, nor look behind, nor

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sideways, but require of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. –And let me just interrupt for a second, this young lady has been told an old superstition which is on St. Agnes' Eve, if you

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obey these superstitious things going without ever going right to bed, that you may well aspire or, in some way, see your husband, your new husband and who your new husband will be, so that's what that's about–

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Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline: the music, yearning like a God in pain, she scarcely heard, her maiden eyes divine, fixed on the floor, saw many a sweeping train pass by, she heeded not at all. In vain came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,

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and back retired. Not cooled by high distain, but she saw not, her heart was otherwhere, she sighed for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. She danced along with vague regardless eyes, anxious her

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lips, her breathing quick and short, the hallowed hour was near at hand, she sighs amid the timbrels and the thronged resort of whispers in anger, or in sport. 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn hoodwinked with faery fancy; all

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amort, save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn and all the bliss to be before tomorrow morn. So, purposing each moment to retire, she lingered still. Meantime, across the moors had come young Porphyro, with heart

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on fire for Madeline. Beside the portal doors, buttressed from moonlight, stands he, and implores all saints to give him sight of Madeline, but for one moment in yhe tedious hours, that he might gaze and worship all unseen; perchance speak,

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kneel, touch, kiss, in sooth such things have been. He ventures in, let no buzzed whisper tell, all eyes be muffled or a hundred swords will storm his heart, Love's feverous citadel. For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, hyena

00:44:43.410 - 00:45:00.960

foemen, and hot-blooded lords, whose very dogs would execrations howl against his lineage, not one breast affords him any mercy, in that mansion foul, save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul.

00:45:02.790 - 00:45:18.810

Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came shuffling along with ivory-headed wand to where he stood, hidden from the torch's flame behind a broad whole pillar, far beyond the sound of merriment and chorus bland. He startled her but soon

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she knew his face and grasped his fingers in her palsied hand, saying, "Mercy, Porphyro. Hie thee from this place. They are all here tonight, the whole blood-thirsty race. Get hence, get hence. There's dwarfish Hildebrand, he had a fever late,

00:45:36.120 - 00:45:54.780

and in the fit he cursed thee and thine, both house and land. Then there's the old Lord Maurice, not a whit more tame for his gray hairs, Alas me! Flit, flit like a ghost away." "Ah, Gossip dear, we're safe enough. Here in this armchair

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sit and tell me how." "Oh, good saints. Not here, not here. Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." He followed through a lowly arched way, brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume, and as she muttered, "Well-a, well-a-day,"

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e found him in a little moonl t room, pale, latticed, chill, a d silent as a tomb. "Now tell e where is Madeline," said he, O tell me, Angela, by the ho y loom, which none but secr t sisterhood may see," when th y St. Agnes' wool are weavi

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"St. Agnes, ah, it is St. Agnes' Eve, yet men will murder upon g piously holy days. Now, must hold water in a witch's sieve and be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, to venture so, which fills

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me with amaze to see thee, Porphyro! St. Agnes' Eve, God's help, my lady fair the conjuror plays this very night. Good angels her deceive. But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve."

00:47:00.710 - 00:47:18.950

Feebly she laughs in the languid moon, while Pophyro upon her face doth look like puzzled urchin on an aged crone who keepeth closed a wonderous riddle-book. As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when

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she told his lady's purpose, and he scarce could brook tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold and Madeline asleep in the lap of legends old. Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, flushing his

00:47:33.520 - 00:47:50.620

brow, and in his pained heart made purple riot. Then doth he propose a stratagem, that makes the beldame start. "A cruel man and impious thou art, sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream alone with her good angels, far apart from wicked

00:47:50.620 - 00:48:07.470

men like thee," says beldame. "Go, go, I deem thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem." "I will not harm her, by all saints, I swear," quoth Prophyro. "O may I never find grace when my weak voice shall

00:48:07.470 - 00:48:25.170

whisper at its last prayer. If one of her soft ringlets I displace, or look with a ruffian passion in her face: Good Angela, believe me by these tears, or I will, even in a moment's space, awake with horrid shout, my foemen's ears

00:48:25.320 - 00:48:42.420

and beard them, though they be more fanged than wolves and bears." "Ah, why wilt thou affright a feeble soul? A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing whose passing-bell may ere the

00:48:42.420 - 00:49:01.020

midnight toll, whose prayers for thee, each morn evening were never missed?" Thus plaining, doth she bring a gentler speech from burning Porphyro, so woeful and of such deep sorrowing that Angela gives promise she will do whatever he shall wish, betide

00:49:01.020 - 00:49:20.020

her weal or woe. Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide him in a closet, of such privacy that he might see her beauty unespied and win perhaps that night a

00:49:20.020 - 00:49:36.460

peerless bride while legioned fairies paced the coverlet and pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. Never on such a night have lovers met, since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.

00:49:36.450 - 00:49:55.350

"It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame. "All cates and dainties shall be stored there quickly on this feast-night by the tambour frame her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare for I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare on such a catering

00:49:55.350 - 00:50:13.300

trust my dizzy head. Wait here, my child, with patience. Kneel in prayer the while. Ah, thou must need the lady wed, or may I never leave my grave among the dead." So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. The lover's endless

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minutes slowly passed, the dame returned and whispered in his ear to follow her. With aged eyes aghast from fright of dim espial. Safe at last through many a dusky gallery, they gain the maiden's chamber, silken, hushed, and chaste. Manna and

00:50:31.690 - 00:50:52.450

dates, in argosy transferred from Fez and spiced dainties, every one, from silken Samarcand- I'm sorry. A page went over. The maidens chamber silken, hushed, and chaste. Where Porphyro took cover, pleased amain. His poor guide

00:50:52.450 - 00:51:20.670

hurried back with agues in her brain. –Let us skip now to Madeline coming into the room and it goes like this- she is getting undressed– Full on this casement shone the wintery moon and threw warm

00:51:20.670 - 00:51:37.320

gules on Madeline's fair breast. As soon as down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon, rose-bloom fell on her hands, together pressed and on her silver cross soft amethyst, and on her hair a glory, like a saint. She seemed a splendid

00:51:37.320 - 00:51:58.200

angel, newly dressed, save wings for heaven. Porphyro grew faint. She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. Anon his heart revives, her vespers done, of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees, unclasp her warmed jewels

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one by one, loosens her fragrant boddice. By degrees her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees, half-hidden like a mermaid and seaweed. Pensive awhile she dreams awake and sees, in fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed but dares not look

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behind, or all the charm has fled. Soon trembling in her soft and chilly nest, in sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed her soothed limbs, and so fatigued away, flown, like a

00:52:33.160 - 00:52:50.920

thought, until the morrow-day, blissfully havened both from joy and pain, clasped like a missal where swart Paynims pray, blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, as though a rose should shut and be a bud again.

00:52:52.310 - 00:53:11.090

Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, Porphyro gazed upon our empty dress and listened to her breathing, if it chanced to wake into a slumberous tenderness, which when he heard, that minute did he bless and breathed himself, then from the

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closet crept noiseless as fear and a wide wilderness and over the hushed carpet, silent, stept, and between the curtains peeped, where lo, how fast she slept. Then by the bedside, where the faded moon made a dim, silver

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twilight, soft he set a table and half anguished through thereon a cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet. O for some drowsy Morphean amulet! The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, the kettle-drum and far-heard clarinet, affray his

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ears, though but in dying tone, the hall door shuts again and all the noise is gone. And still she slept and as azure-lidded sleep in blanched linen, smooth and lavendered, while he from the closet brought

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a heap of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd; with jellies soother than the creamy curd and lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon. Manna and dates, in argosy transferred from Fez; and spiced dainties, every one, from silken Samarcand to cedared

00:54:18.430 - 00:54:31.420

Lebanon. These delicates he heaped with a glowing hand on golden dishes and in baskets bright of wreathed silver, sumptuous they stand in the retired quiet of the night, filling the chilly

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room with perfume light. "And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! Thou art my heaven and I thine eremite: Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache."

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Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream by the dusk curtains. It was a midnight charm impossible to melt as iced stream, the lustrous salvors in the moonlight gleam, broad golden fringe upon the carpet

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lies. It seemed he never, never could redeem from such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes, so mused awhile entoiled in woofed fantasies. Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, tumultuous, and in chords

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that tenderest be, he played an ancient ditty, long since mute, in Provence called, "La belle dame sans mercy," close to her ear touching the melody. Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a soft moan. He ceased, she panted quick, and suddenly, her

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blue affrayed eyes wide open shone. Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone. Her eyes we're open, but she still beheld, now wide awake, the vision of her sleep. There was a painful change, that nigh

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expelled the blisses of her dream so pure and deep at which fair Madeline began to weep, and moan forth witless words with many a sigh, while still her gaze on Porphyro would keep. Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, fearing to move or

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speak, she looked so dreamingly. "Oh, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now thy voice was that sweet tremble in mine ear made tuneable with every sweetest vow and those sad eyes were spiritual and clear, how changed

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thou art, how pallid, chill, and drear. Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, those looks immortal, those complainings dear. Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, for if thy diest, my Love, I know not where to go."

00:56:57.050 - 00:57:13.940

Beyond a mortal man impassioned far at these voluptuous accents, he arose ethereal, of flushed and like a throbbing star seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose. Into her dream he melted, as the rose blendeth its odor with the violet. Solution

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sweet, meantime the frost-wind blows like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet against the window-panes. St. Agnes' moon hath set. 'Tis dark, quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet: "This is no

00:57:34.550 - 00:57:52.370

dream, my bride, my Madeline." 'Tis dark, the ice gusts still rave and bear: "No dream, alas, alas, and woe is mine." Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. Cruel! What traitor could thee hither bring? I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine,

00:57:52.970 - 00:58:08.600

though thou forsakest a deceived thing; a dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing." "My Madeline, sweet dreamer, lovely bride. Say, may I be fore aye thy vassal blessed? Thy beauty's shield heart-shaped and

00:58:08.600 - 00:58:27.860

vermeil dyed? Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest after so many hours of toil and quest, a famished pilgrim, saved by miracle. Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest saving of my sweet self. If thou think as well to trust, fair Madeline, to

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no rude infidel. "Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land of haggard, seeming but a boon indeed. Arise, arise, the morning is at hand. The bloated wassaillers will never heed. Let us away, my love, with

00:58:44.090 - 00:58:57.200

happy speed. There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, drowned all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. Awake, arise, my love, and fearless be for over the southern moors I have a home for thee."

00:58:58.230 - 00:59:12.300

She hurried at his words, beset with fears for there were sleeping dragons all around at glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears, down the wide stairs a darkling way they found. In all the house was heard no human sound. A

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chain-drooped lamp was flickering by each door. The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound fluttered in the besieging wind's uproar. And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.

00:59:24.830 - 00:59:39.770

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall, like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide. Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl, with a huge empty flaggon by his side, the wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, but his sagacious eye an

00:59:40.640 - 00:59:59.650

inmate owns. By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide, the chains lie silent on the footworn stones, the key turns and the door upon its hinges groans. And they gone, ay ages long ago these lovers fled away into the

00:59:59.650 - 01:00:19.720

storm. That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe and all his warrior-guests, with shade and form of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm, were long be-nightmared. Angela the old died palsy-twitched, with meagre face deform, the Beadsman, after

01:00:19.720 - 01:00:35.980

thousand aves told, for aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold. This has been the Poetry Show, I'm Mort Marcus, we are presenting a Death Day celebration for John Keats, who

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died at the age of 26 on February 23rd, 1821. Stay tuned for Crossing the Color Line, which will be on right now as part of the Sunday night special to our program written and narrated by historian and civil rights activist Julian Bond, who

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reflects on the racial, social and historical events that led to the creation of rock and roll music Remember next week on the Poetry Show, stay tuned in for Celebration of the Muse, which is a prelude to the great poetry show marvelous 25 women or so

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that will take place on March 8th. That is next week and please remember to listen, KQED Channel Nine this Thursday at 8:30pm to 11 for the United States of Poetry, which will feature among many, many other great poets of America.