An Extract from The Eve of St. Agnes by John Keats | Sunday Observer

An Extract from The Eve of St. Agnes by John Keats

St. Agnes’ Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was!
       The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
       The hare limp'd 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 frosted breath,
       Like pious incense from a censer old,
       Seem'd 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 his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
       And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
       Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:
       The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze,
       Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails:
       Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries,
       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
       Flatter'd to tears this aged man 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 sinners’ sake to grieve.
       That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;
       And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide,
       From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,
       The silver, snarling trumpets ‘gan to chide:
       The level chambers, ready with their pride,
       Were glowing to receive a thousand guests:
       The carved angels, ever eager-eyed,
       Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice rests,
With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts.
       At length burst in the argent revelry,
       With plume, tiara, and all rich array,
       Numerous as shadows haunting faerily
       The brain, new stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay
       Of old romance. These let us wish away,
       And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there,
       Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,
       On love, and wing'd 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 have visions of delight,
       And soft adorings from their loves receive
       Upon the honey'd 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 sideways, but require
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.