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C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

From ‘Hyperion’

By John Keats (1795–1821)

(See full text.)

DEEP in the shady sadness of a vale,

Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,

Far from the fiery noon, and eve’s one star,

Sat gray-haired Saturn, quiet as a stone,

Still as the silence round about his lair.

Forest on forest hung about his head

Like cloud on cloud….

Along the margin-sand large foot-marks went,

No further than to where his feet had strayed,

And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground

His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead,

Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were closed;

While his bowed head seemed listening to the Earth,

His ancient mother, for some comfort yet.

It seemed no force could wake him from his place;

But there came one who with a kindred hand

Touched his wide shoulders, after bending low

With reverence, though to one who knew it not.

She was a goddess of the infant world….

Her face was large as that of Memphian Sphinx,

Pedestaled haply in a palace court,

When sages looked to Egypt for their lore.

But oh! how unlike marble was that face:

How beautiful, if sorrow had not made

Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty’s self.

There was a listening fear in her regard,

As if calamity had but begun;

As if the vanward clouds of evil days

Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear

Was with its storèd thunder laboring up.