John Keats

Here you will find the Long Poem I Stood Tip-Toe Upon A Little Hill of poet John Keats

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