I Stood Tip-Toe Upon A Little Hill

I stood tip-toe upon a little hill, 

The air was cooling, and so very still, 

That the sweet buds which with a modest pride 

Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, 

Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems,       

Had not yet lost those starry diadems 

Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. 

The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn, 

And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept 

On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept         

A little noiseless noise among the leaves, 

Born of the very sigh that silence heaves: 

For not the faintest motion could be seen 

Of all the shades that slanted o’er the green. 

There was wide wand’ring for the greediest eye,         

To peer about upon variety; 

Far round the horizon’s crystal air to skim, 

And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim; 

To picture out the quaint, and curious bending 

Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending;       

Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves, 

Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves. 

I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free 

As though the fanning wings of Mercury 

Had played upon my heels: I was light-hearted,         

And many pleasures to my vision started; 

So I straightway began to pluck a posey 

Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy. 

A bush of May flowers with the bees about them; 

Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them;         

And let a lush laburnum oversweep them, 

And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them 

Moist, cool and green; and shade the violets, 

That they may bind the moss in leafy nets. 

A filbert hedge with wildbriar overtwined,         

And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind 

Upon their summer thrones; there too should be 

The frequent chequer of a youngling tree, 

That with a score of light green breth[r]en shoots 

From the quaint mossiness of aged roots:       

Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters 

Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters 

The spreading blue bells: it may haply mourn 

That such fair clusters should be rudely torn 

From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly         

By infant hands, left on the path to die. 

Open afresh your round of starry folds, 

Ye ardent marigolds! 

Dry up the moisture from your golden lids, 

For great Apollo bids         

That in these days your praises should be sung 

On many harps, which he has lately strung; 

And when again your dewiness he kisses, 

Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses: 

So haply when I rove in some far vale,         

His mighty voice may come upon the gale. 

Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight: 

With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white, 

And taper fingers catching at all things, 

To bind them all about with tiny rings.       

Linger awhile upon some bending planks 

That lean against a streamlet’s rushy banks, 

And watch intently Nature’s gentle doings: 

They will be found softer than ring-dove’s cooings. 

How silent comes the water round that bend;         

Not the minutest whisper does it send 

To the o’erhanging sallows: blades of grass 

Slowly across the chequer’d shadows pass. 

Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach 

To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach         

A natural sermon o’er their pebbly beds; 

Where swarms of minnows show their little heads, 

Staying their wavy bodies ’gainst the streams, 

To taste the luxury of sunny beams 

Temper’d with coolness. How they ever wrestle         

With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle 

Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand. 

If you but scantily hold out the hand, 

That very instant not one will remain; 

But turn your eye, and they are there again.         

The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses, 

And cool themselves among the em’rald tresses; 

The while they cool themselves, they freshness give, 

And moisture, that the bowery green may live: 

So keeping up an interchange of favours,         

Like good men in the truth of their behaviours. 

Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop 

From low hung branches; little space they stop; 

But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek; 

Then off at once, as in a wanton freak:         

Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings 

Pausing upon their yellow flutterings. 

Were I in such a place, I sure should pray 

That nought less sweet, might call my thoughts away, 

Than the soft rustle of a maiden’s gown         

Fanning away the dandelion’s down; 

Than the light music of her nimble toes 

Patting against the sorrel as she goes. 

How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught 

Playing in all her innocence of thought.         

O let me lead her gently o’er the brook, 

Watch her half-smiling lips, and downward look; 

O let me for one moment touch her wrist; 

Let me one moment to her breathing list; 

And as she leaves me may she often turn         

Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne. 

What next? A tuft of evening primroses, 

O’er which the mind may hover till it dozes; 

O’er which it well might take a pleasant sleep, 

But that ’tis ever startled by the leap         

Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting 

Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting; 

Or by the moon lifting her silver rim 

Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim 

Coming into the blue with all her light.         

O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight 

Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers; 

Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers, 

Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams, 

Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams,         

Lover of loneliness, and wandering, 

Of upcast eye, and tender pondering! 

Thee must I praise above all other glories 

That smile us on to tell delightful stories. 

For what has made the sage or poet write         

But the fair paradise of Nature’s light? 

In the calm grandeur of a sober line, 

We see the waving of the mountain pine; 

And when a tale is beautifully staid, 

We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade:       

When it is moving on luxurious wings, 

The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings: 

Fair dewy roses brush against our faces, 

And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases; 

O’erhead we see the jasmine and sweet briar,       

And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire; 

While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles 

Charms us at once away from all our troubles: 

So that we feel uplifted from the world, 

Walking upon the white clouds wreath’d and curl’d.         

So felt he, who first told, how Psyche went 

On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment; 

What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips 

First touch’d; what amorous and fondling nips 

They gave each other’s cheeks; with all their sighs,       

And how they kist each other’s tremulous eyes: 

The silver lamp,—the ravishment,—the wonder— 

The darkness,—loneliness,—the fearful thunder; 

Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, 

To bow for gratitude before Jove’s throne.       

So did he feel, who pull’d the boughs aside, 

That we might look into a forest wide, 

To catch a glimpse of Fawns, and Dryades 

Coming with softest rustle through the trees; 

And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet,         

Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet: 

Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fled 

Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread. 

Poor Nymph,—poor Pan,—how did he weep to find, 

Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind         

Along the reedy stream; a half heard strain, 

Full of sweet desolation—balmy pain. 

What first inspired a bard of old to sing 

Narcissus pining o’er the untainted spring? 

In some delicious ramble, he had found       

A little space, with boughs all woven round; 

And in the midst of all, a clearer pool 

Than e’er reflected in its pleasant cool, 

The blue sky here, and there, serenely peeping 

Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping.       

And on the bank a lonely flower he spied, 

A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride, 

Drooping its beauty o’er the watery clearness, 

To woo its own sad image into nearness: 

Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move;         

But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love. 

So while the Poet stood in this sweet spot, 

Some fainter gleamings o’er his fancy shot; 

Nor was it long ere he had told the tale 

Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo’s bale.       

Where had he been, from whose warm head out-flew 

That sweetest of all songs, that ever new, 

That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness, 

Coming ever to bless 

The wanderer by moonlight? to him bringing         

Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing 

From out the middle air, from flowery nests, 

And from the pillowy silkiness that rests 

Full in the speculation of the stars. 

Ah! surely he had burst our mortal bars;       

Into some wond’rous region he had gone, 

To search for thee, divine Endymion! 

He was a Poet, sure a lover too, 

Who stood on Latmus’ top, what time there blew 

Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below;       

And brought in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow 

A hymn from Dian’s temple; while upswelling, 

The incense went to her own starry dwelling. 

But though her face was clear as infant’s eyes, 

Though she stood smiling o’er the sacrifice,         

The Poet wept at her so piteous fate, 

Wept that such beauty should be desolate: 

So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won, 

And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion. 

Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queen       

Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen! 

As thou exceedest all things in thy shine, 

So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine. 

O for three words of honey, that I might 

Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night!       

Where distant ships do seem to show their keels, 

Phoebus awhile delayed his mighty wheels, 

And turned to smile upon thy bashful eyes, 

Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize. 

The evening weather was so bright, and clear,       

That men of health were of unusual cheer; 

Stepping like Homer at the trumpet’s call, 

Or young Apollo on the pedestal: 

And lovely women were as fair and warm, 

As Venus looking sideways in alarm.       

The breezes were ethereal, and pure, 

And crept through half closed lattices to cure 

The languid sick; it cool’d their fever’d sleep, 

And soothed them into slumbers full and deep. 

Soon they awoke clear eyed: nor burnt with thirsting   

Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting: 

And springing up, they met the wond’ring sight 

Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight; 

Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss and stare, 

And on their placid foreheads part the hair.       

Young men, and maidens at each other gaz’d 

With hands held back, and motionless, amaz’d 

To see the brightness in each others’ eyes; 

And so they stood, fill’d with a sweet surprise, 

Until their tongues were loos’d in poesy.       

Therefore no lover did of anguish die: 

But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken, 

Made silken ties, that never may be broken. 

Cynthia! I cannot tell the greater blisses, 

That follow’d thine, and thy dear shepherd’s kisses: 

Was there a Poet born?—but now no more, 

My wand’ring spirit must no further soar.

I stood tip-toe upon a little hill : Leigh Hunt tells us in 'Lord Byron and Some of his Contemporaries' that "this poem was suggested to Keats by a delightful summer's-day, as he stood beside the gate that leads from the Battery on Hampstead Heath into a field by Caen Wood."(lines 37-41) Of this passage Hunt says, "Any body who has seen a throng of young beeches, furnishing those natural clumpy seats at the root, must recognize the truth and grace of this description." He adds that the remainder of the poem, especially verses 47 to 86, "affords an exquisite proof of close observation of nature as well as the most luxuriant fancy."(lines 61-80) Charles Cowden Clarke says Keats told him this passage was the recollection of the friends' "having frequently loitered over the rail of a foot-bridge that spanned ... a little brook in the last field upon entering Edmonton." Keats, he says, "thought the picture correct, and acknowledged to a partiality for it." ~The Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895.