Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE CASTLE BUILDER; FRAGMENTS OF A DIALOGUE, by JOHN KEATS Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: In short, convince you that however wise Last Line: And I must sit to supper with my friar. | ||||||||
* * * * * * * CASTLE BUILDER. IN short, convince you that however wise You may have grown from Convent libraries, I have, by many yards at least, been carding A longer skein of wit in Convent garden. BERNARDINE. A very Eden that same place must be! Pray what demesne? Whose Lordship's legacy? What, have you convents in that Gothic Isle? Pray pardon me, I cannot help but smile. * * * * * * * CASTLE BUILDER. Sir, Convent Garden is a monstrous beast From morning, four o'clock, to twelve at noon, It swallows cabbages without a spoon, And then, from twelve till two, this Eden made is A promenade for cooks and ancient ladies; And then for supper, 'stead of soup and poaches, It swallows chairmen, damns, and Hackney coaches. In short, Sir, 'tis a very place for monks, For it containeth twenty thousand punks, Which any man may number for his sport, By following fat elbows up a court. * * * * * * * In such like nonsense would I pass an hour With random Friar, or Rake upon his tour, Or one of few of that imperial host Who came unmaimed from the Russian frost * * * * * * * To-night I'll have my friar--let me think About my room,--I'll have it in the pink; It should be rich and sombre, and the moon, Just in its mid-life in the midst of June, Should look thro' four large windows and display Clear, but for gold-fish vases in the way, Their glassy diamonding on Turkish floor; The tapers keep aside, an hour and more, To see what else the moon alone can show; While the night-breeze doth softly let us know My terrace is well bower'd with oranges. Upon the floor the dullest spirit sees A guitar-ribband and a lady's glove Beside a crumple-leaved tale of love; A tambour-frame, with Venus sleeping there, All finish'd but some ringlets of her hair; A viol-bow, strings torn, cross-wise upon A glorious folio of Anacreon; A skull upon a mat of roses lying, Ink'd purple with a song concerning dying; An hour-glass on the turn, amid the trails Of passion-flower;--just in time there sails A cloud across the moon,--the lights bring in! And see what more my phantasy can win. It is a gorgeous room, but somewhat sad; The draperies are so, as tho' they had Been made for Cleopatra's winding-sheet; And opposite the stedfast eye doth meet A spacious looking-glass, upon whose face, In letters raven-sombre, you may trace Old "Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin." Greek busts and statuary have ever been Held, by the finest spirits, fitter far Than vase grotesque and Siamesian jar; Therefore 'tis sure a want of Attic taste That I should rather love a Gothic waste Of eyesight on cinque-coloured potter's clay, Than on the marble fairness of old Greece. My table-coverlits of Jason's fleece And black Numidian sheep-wool should be wrought, Gold, black, and heavy, from the Lama brought. My ebon sofas should delicious be With down from Leda's cygnet progeny. My pictures all Salvator's, save a few Of Titian's portraiture, and one, though new, Of Haydon's in its fresh magnificence. My wine--O good! 'tis here at my desire, And I must sit to supper with my friar. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EXTRACTS FROM AN OPERA: 2. DAISY'S SONG by JOHN KEATS ITALY SWEET TOO! by JOHN KEATS LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI by JOHN KEATS LAST SONNET (REVISED VERSION) by JOHN KEATS LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN by JOHN KEATS ODE ON A GRECIAN URN by JOHN KEATS |
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