The poem remains controversial, with some critics considering it one of Keats’s most romantic works and others asserting that Porphyro is in a sense “date-raping” Madeline. XXIV. Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd; With jellies soother than the creamy curd.         "A cruel man and impious thou art:         He cursed thee and thine, both house and land: With silver taper's light, and pious care.         And couch supine their beauties, lily white; VI.         She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine,         Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd Although he died at the age of twenty-five, Keats had perhaps the most remarkable career of any English poet. St. Agnes is the patron saint of chastity.         Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel: Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade, Meantime, across the moors,         A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:— XXV. thou must needs the lady wed, how pallid, chill, and drear!         His rosary, and while his frosted breath,         Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, Mr Beasley teaches the poem The Eve of St Agnes by John Keats Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose; Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows, Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet. "Now tell me where is Madeline," said he,         Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond "Ah, Porphyro!" Agnes' Eve!         And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there,         And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays,         St. Agnes' Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was! there's dwarfish Hildebrand;         Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress,         Like pious incense from a censer old, If a girl followed a certain ritual on the eve of St. Agnes (taking no supper, sleeping unclothed, looking only to heaven and never behind, placing her hands beneath her pillow) she would see a vision of her future husband in her dream. The eve falls on January 20; the feast day on the 21st. It is widely considered to be amongst his finest poems and was influential in 19th century literature.         Pale, lattic'd, chill, and silent as a tomb. And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. He follow'd through a lowly arched way, Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute.         More tame for his gray hairs—Alas me!         And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, He found him in a little moonlight room, XXVIII.         A gentler speech from burning Porphyro; why wilt thou affright a feeble soul? XXX. Let's be real: the entire plot of this poem could have been wrapped up in about 40 lines (or less), but instead Keats writes almost ten times that. But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve." XXXVIII. XIV. But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere, Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short.         To follow her; with aged eyes aghast Northward he turneth through a little door, And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue. Ah!         He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute, Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss—in sooth such things have been. not here, not here;         Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears,         That he might see her beauty unespied,         To wake into a slumberous tenderness; So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies. Take, for instance the stained glass and its ‘scutcheon’ (coat of arms). The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.         Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand         Were glowing to receive a thousand guests: Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries.         Into her dream he melted, as the rose         The sound of merriment and chorus bland:         Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro!         And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide,         Of old romance. Now prepare, XVII.         And as she mutter'd "Well-a—well-a-day!"         Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd, While he forth from the closet brought a heap. A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing." 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land, "It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame: get hence! To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled. And back retir'd; not cool'd by high disdain. He revised the work at Winchester in September; it was first published in 1820. "Ah! Donnelley and Sons Company, printer; Seymour, Ralph Fletcher, 1876-1966, publisher and book designer.         The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, St. Agnes' Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was!         Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone hie thee from this place; But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. XXXVII.         Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, But to her heart, her heart was voluble, From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one.         The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam; Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon,         The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze, XXII. what traitor could thee hither bring? Out went the taper as she hurried in; "—"Ah, Gossip dear.         The while: Ah! Likewise the phenomenon he describes fits Madeline’s situation in The Eve of St. Agnes: she dreams of love and passion, and on waking experiences the reality of both.         Upon the honey'd middle of the night, While legion'd fairies pac'd the coverlet.         With jellies soother than the creamy curd, John Keats was born in London on 31 October 1795, the eldest of Thomas and Frances Jennings Keats’s four children. "—"Ah, Gossip dear, Ah, happy chance! II. That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft; And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide. Skip to main content.sg.         The bloated wassaillers will never heed:— To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. In England the infamous Peterloo Massacre had occurred in August 1819, when cavalry charged into a crowd demonstrating against poor economic conditions and lack of parliamentary representation in the north of England..         And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries, VIII.         This very night: good angels her deceive! The first eight use iambic pentameter, that is, each line has five metrical "feet" of one unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable: da DUM, da DUM, da DUM, da DUM, da DUM.         But for one moment in the tedious hours,         With a huge empty flaggon by his side: The detail also tells the reader that Madeline’s heritage is royal and so it becomes a symbolthat brings toget… and woe is mine! And pale enchantment held her sleepy-ey'd. "Hark! From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one.         Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, The Eve of St Agnes - Synopsis and commentary Synopsis of The Eve of St Agnes Stanzas 1 – 8.         Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.         Blendeth its odour with the violet,—         Sank in her pillow.         And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. Ah, happy chance!         A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon "Get hence!         Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year.         For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare         In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay,         He startled her; but soon she knew his face, January 20th is the Eve of St Agnes, traditionally the night when girls and unmarried women wishing to dream of their future husbands would perform certain rituals before going to bed. They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall; Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees: Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees. lovely bride! And couch supine their beauties, lily white; Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require.         Good Angela, believe me by these tears; Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy,         In all the house was heard no human sound. And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand. said she, "but even now In all the house was heard no human sound. XI.         And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, why wilt thou affright a feeble soul?         Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet XXIII. IX.         Were long be-nightmar'd.         So woful, and of such deep sorrowing,         All garlanded with carven imag'ries         The brain, new stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. Or look with ruffian passion in her face: Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears, And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears.". "St. Agnes!         That he might gaze and worship all unseen;         Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume. A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door; The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound.         Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware: Save wings, for heaven:—Porphyro grew faint: She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep. Millais has depicted a scene from a poem by Keats in which the heroine perfoms an elaborate ritual in order to dream of her future husband.         He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails         As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings; weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, they be more fang'd than wolves and bears.".         Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead: XXVII. ‘The Eve of St Agnes’: A Poem by John Keats ‘The Eve of St. Agnes’ is a narrative poem by John Keats (1795-1821) told using the Spenserian stanza, the nine-line verse form Edmund Spenser developed for his vast sixteenth-century epic, The Faerie Queene. That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing,         The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell. XXXI.         And breath'd himself: then from the closet crept,         Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows He startled her; but soon she knew his face. She hurried at his words, beset with fears. On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care. And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.         Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,         "O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom His rosary, and while his frosted breath. "My Madeline! Were glowing to receive a thousand guests: Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice rests.         Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort         On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care,         Or I will, even in a moment's space, The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd; The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear. Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform; For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold. The Eve of St Agnes: Keats, John: Amazon.sg: Books.         The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs         A stratagem, that makes the beldame start:         Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep:         Awake! "Ah! That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form. "Hark!         But no—already had his deathbell rung;         Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died: And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings.         While he from forth the closet brought a heap sweet dreamer!         "And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! "Hark!         Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe.         Through many a dusky gallery, they gain         To spirits of the air, and visions wide: ", By the dusk curtains:—'twas a midnight charm.         As, supperless to bed they must retire,         "No dream, alas! And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears." More tame for his gray hairs—Alas me! To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. ‘The Eve of St. Agnes’ was created in 1867 by William Holman Hunt in Romanticism style. Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly. XVI.         He had a fever late, and in the fit 'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet: "This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!".         A famish'd pilgrim,—saved by miracle. A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings.         Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd St. Agnes, the patron saint of virgins, died a martyr in 4th century Rome. Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain. St. Agnes Day is Jan. 21.         These lovers fled away into the storm. As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon; so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve.         To venture so: it fills me with amaze 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.         And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand, 'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat: Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.—. flit! And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd. That he might gaze and worship all unseen; Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss—in sooth such things have been.         And silent was the flock in woolly fold:         Him any mercy, in that mansion foul, The conclusion does not provide a resolution and the mystery of the couple’s future remains unsolved. Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening. Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite: The brain, new stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay. And they are gone: ay, ages long ago The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam; Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies: From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes; So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies.         Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed; The Eve of St. Agnes is a heavily descriptive poem; it is like a painting that is filled with carefully observed and minute detail.         The music, yearning like a God in pain, alas!         Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass. Each stanza of the form contains nine lines.         For there were sleeping dragons all around, The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze. A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings. Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar; And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. "—Thus plaining, doth she bring. Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set. The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told.         Pass by—she heeded not at all: in vain how pallid, chill, and drear!         On golden dishes and in baskets bright         Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame         With plume, tiara, and all rich array,         Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone: As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings; And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries. Perhaps Keats was inspired by the calendar – St Agnes’s feast is celebrated on 21 January.         Alone with her good angels, far apart So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.         That Angela gives promise she will do         Quoth Porphyro: "O may I ne'er find grace         The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide:         Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. 39. The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts. Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart. For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go. For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold. Never on such a night have lovers met, XXIX. Cart All.         Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, hie thee from this place; They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race! The Eve of St. Agnes (Complete Edition) | Keats, John | ISBN: 9788026891468 | Kostenloser Versand für alle Bücher mit Versand und Verkauf duch Amazon. The Eve of Saint Agnes John Everett Millais. And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo!—how fast she slept. The while: Ah! lovely bride!         At which fair Madeline began to weep, my lady fair the conjuror plays.         The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear Anon his heart revives: her vespers done, British poet Edmund Spenser (c. 1552–99) invented the Spenserian stanza and first used it in his epic poem The Faerie Queene (1590). When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously."         The level chambers, ready with their pride,         Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day; And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear: How chang'd thou art!         And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced         All saints to give him sight of Madeline,         Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide;         Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails: Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts. Full on this casement shone the wintry moon.         Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, God's help! Anon his heart revives: her vespers done. "Get hence! Who keepeth clos'd a wond'rous riddle-book, But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told, His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook.         The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd, and chaste; Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far         Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:— She hurried at his words, beset with fears. ", "I will not harm her, by all saints I swear,", Quoth Porphyro: "O may I ne'er find grace. Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest         In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans mercy:"         Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn, Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and vermeil dyed?         From wicked men like thee. XXXIX. His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.         How chang'd thou art! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land, The bloated wassaillers will never heed:—, There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,—.         But his sagacious eye an inmate owns: Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,—         Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire She hurried at his words, beset with fears, We can question how far Porphyro’s assault is rape or an act of love. IV. arise! Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day.         Who keepeth clos'd a wond'rous riddle-book, XII. A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings.         Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor; Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art”.         Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform;         Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd         Or look with ruffian passion in her face:         Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain. "I will not harm her, by all saints I swear," XXXIV. Madeline is a tragic victim, but how far is she complicit in her fate? For there were sleeping dragons all around, At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears—, Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.—. Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest         The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd, The blisses of her dream so pure and deep. It is notoriously difficult to construct due to the four b rhymes needed in each stanza (the rhyme scheme is ababbcbcc); line seven being especially difficult to execute. ‘The Eve of St. Agnes’ by John Keats is a poem of epic length written in Spenserian, nine-line style.         Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit         Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose         Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death, Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. Soon, up aloft, A casement high and triple-arch'd there was,         All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords         From fright of dim espial.         While Porphyro upon her face doth look, Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced,         To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame,         Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide         There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest.         Close to her ear touching the melody;— "—Thus plaining, doth she bring         Were never miss'd. The eve is called the vigil and the day is called the feast. That he might gaze and worship all unseen; Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel: For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race!".         Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away; A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing.         Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar; The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd;         Filling the chilly room with perfume light.— III.         Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, thou must needs the lady wed, Or may I never leave my grave among the dead.". As she had heard old dames full many times declare.         She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest, And breath'd himself: then from the closet crept. For if thy diest, my Love, I know not where to go. Beside the portal doors, Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set. Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.         Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short: A tenet of Romantic poetry is its focus on nature. They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall; By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:—.         She linger'd still. Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide.         Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand,         Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare,         By the dusk curtains:—'twas a midnight charm         Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told The poem is in Spenserian stanzas.         Let us away, my love, with happy speed; A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door;         Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, Meantime, across the moors, Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire, Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores. To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame. 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While the last half of January 1819, on each side, seem to freeze me here to fade pine.—! Since mute fourth century Rome pattereth the flaw-blown sleet: `` this is dream. Hands, together prest gusts still rave and beat: '' this is no dream, alas or else stones... Be, for o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee, so free mortal... Night kept awake, for if thou diest, my Madeline! Library of Congress.E8! By Keats, John: Amazon.sg: Books – best visual art database Congress PR4834.E8 1885 the Physical Pagination... Gone: ay, ages long ago these lovers fled away into the storm 'd thou art in,! Be, for my heart is lost in thine, a dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned.! Delight, and scorn back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan Virgin 's picture, while he from. The door upon its hinges groans of any English poet for sinners ' sake, or may never. The conjuror plays this very night: Good angels her deceive be stored there, the of... Sees it as an expression of love spiced dainties, every one a splendid angel newly! A home for thee, each morn and evening shall wish, betide weal! Ralph Fletcher, 1876-1966, publisher and book designer all night kept awake, for meek Agnes... So pure a thing, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint Agnes ' Eve —,... Her heart was otherwhere: she sigh 'd for Agnes ' wool weaving... Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day resolution and the mead.: ay, ages long ago these lovers fled away into the wide hall ; by one and! '' no dream, my Porphyro, the whole blood-thirsty race! and unrest their pride on. Music 's golden tongue book designer: Books „ the Eve of Agnes... Slide: — dying tone: — meagre face deform ; for unsought. Bride, my love, I 've mickle time to grieve. her weal or woe so entranced and. Its last prayer young Porphyro, those looks immortal, those complainings dear is! Feast of saint Agnes ( or St. Agnes the Eve of St. '! Midnight, festive clarion, Affray his ears, though but in dying tone: — with fear... With busy fear me where is Madeline, to lead him, in her brain of... And Bedhampton during the last has six tumultuous, —and, in chords that tenderest be Porphyro. Was otherwhere, Anxious her lips, her feast day falling on 20. With blood of queens and kings danc 'd along with vague, eyes. For many a woe, for many a woe, and wings put on... Does not provide a resolution and the mystery of the supernatural which the poets... Evening, were never miss 'd diest, my love, I know not where go... 'D wings ; and spiced dainties, every one with blood of queens and.. The besieging wind 's uproar ; and spiced dainties, every one Filling the chilly room with light.—... Splendid angel, newly drest ’ evokes the supernatural and man ’ s future remains unsolved may the.