The Eve of St. Agnes Summary & Analysis

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The Full Text of “The Eve of St. Agnes”

1St. Agnes' Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was!

2       The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;

3       The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,

4       And silent was the flock in woolly fold:

5       Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told

6       His rosary, and while his frosted breath,

7       Like pious incense from a censer old,

8       Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death,

9Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.

10       His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;

11       Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,

12       And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,

13       Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:

14       The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze,

15       Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails:

16       Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries,

17       He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails

18To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.

19       Northward he turneth through a little door,

20       And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue

21       Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor;

22       But no—already had his deathbell rung;

23       The joys of all his life were said and sung:

24       His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve:

25       Another way he went, and soon among

26       Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve,

27And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve.

28       That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;

29       And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide,

30       From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,

31       The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide:

32       The level chambers, ready with their pride,

33       Were glowing to receive a thousand guests:

34       The carved angels, ever eager-eyed,

35       Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice rests,

36With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts.

37       At length burst in the argent revelry,

38       With plume, tiara, and all rich array,

39       Numerous as shadows haunting faerily

40       The brain, new stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay

41       Of old romance. These let us wish away,

42       And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there,

43       Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,

44       On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care,

45As she had heard old dames full many times declare.

46       They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve,

47       Young virgins might have visions of delight,

48       And soft adorings from their loves receive

49       Upon the honey'd middle of the night,

50       If ceremonies due they did aright;

51       As, supperless to bed they must retire,

52       And couch supine their beauties, lily white;

53       Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require

54Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.

55       Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline:

56       The music, yearning like a God in pain,

57       She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine,

58       Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train

59       Pass by—she heeded not at all: in vain

60       Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,

61       And back retir'd, not cool'd by high disdain;

62       But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere:

63She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year.

64       She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes,

65       Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short:

66       The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs

67       Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort

68       Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;

69       'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,

70       Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort,

71       Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn,

72And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.

73       So, purposing each moment to retire,

74       She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors,

75       Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire

76       For Madeline. Beside the portal doors,

77       Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores

78       All saints to give him sight of Madeline,

79       But for one moment in the tedious hours,

80       That he might gaze and worship all unseen;

81Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss—in sooth such things have been.

82       He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell:

83       All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords

84       Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel:

85       For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes,

86       Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords,

87       Whose very dogs would execrations howl

88       Against his lineage: not one breast affords

89       Him any mercy, in that mansion foul,

90Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul.

91       Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came,

92       Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand,

93       To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame,

94       Behind a broad half-pillar, far beyond

95       The sound of merriment and chorus bland:

96       He startled her; but soon she knew his face,

97       And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand,

98       Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place;

99They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race!

100       "Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand;

101       He had a fever late, and in the fit

102       He cursed thee and thine, both house and land:

103       Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit

104       More tame for his gray hairs—Alas me! flit!

105       Flit like a ghost away."—"Ah, Gossip dear,

106       We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit,

107       And tell me how"—"Good Saints! not here, not here;

108Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier."

109       He follow'd through a lowly arched way,

110       Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume,

111       And as she mutter'd "Well-a—well-a-day!"

112       He found him in a little moonlight room,

113       Pale, lattic'd, chill, and silent as a tomb.

114       "Now tell me where is Madeline," said he,

115       "O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom

116       Which none but secret sisterhood may see,

117When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously."

118       "St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve—

119       Yet men will murder upon holy days:

120       Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve,

121       And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays,

122       To venture so: it fills me with amaze

123       To see thee, Porphyro!—St. Agnes' Eve!

124       God's help! my lady fair the conjuror plays

125       This very night: good angels her deceive!

126But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve."

127       Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon,

128       While Porphyro upon her face doth look,

129       Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone

130       Who keepeth clos'd a wond'rous riddle-book,

131       As spectacled she sits in chimney nook.

132       But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told

133       His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook

134       Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold,

135And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old.

136       Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,

137       Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart

138       Made purple riot: then doth he propose

139       A stratagem, that makes the beldame start:

140       "A cruel man and impious thou art:

141       Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream

142       Alone with her good angels, far apart

143       From wicked men like thee. Go, go!—I deem

144Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem."

145       "I will not harm her, by all saints I swear,"

146       Quoth Porphyro: "O may I ne'er find grace

147       When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer,

148       If one of her soft ringlets I displace,

149       Or look with ruffian passion in her face:

150       Good Angela, believe me by these tears;

151       Or I will, even in a moment's space,

152       Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears,

153And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears."

154       "Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul?

155       A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing,

156       Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll;

157       Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening,

158       Were never miss'd."—Thus plaining, doth she bring

159       A gentler speech from burning Porphyro;

160       So woful, and of such deep sorrowing,

161       That Angela gives promise she will do

162Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe.

163       Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy,

164       Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide

165       Him in a closet, of such privacy

166       That he might see her beauty unespy'd,

167       And win perhaps that night a peerless bride,

168       While legion'd faeries pac'd the coverlet,

169       And pale enchantment held her sleepy-ey'd.

170       Never on such a night have lovers met,

171Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.

172       "It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame:

173       "All cates and dainties shall be stored there

174       Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame

175       Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare,

176       For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare

177       On such a catering trust my dizzy head.

178       Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer

179       The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed,

180Or may I never leave my grave among the dead."

181       So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear.

182       The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd;

183       The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear

184       To follow her; with aged eyes aghast

185       From fright of dim espial. Safe at last,

186       Through many a dusky gallery, they gain

187       The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd, and chaste;

188       Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain.

189His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.

190       Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade,

191       Old Angela was feeling for the stair,

192       When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid,

193       Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware:

194       With silver taper's light, and pious care,

195       She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led

196       To a safe level matting. Now prepare,

197       Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed;

198She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled.

199       Out went the taper as she hurried in;

200       Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:

201       She clos'd the door, she panted, all akin

202       To spirits of the air, and visions wide:

203       No uttered syllable, or, woe betide!

204       But to her heart, her heart was voluble,

205       Paining with eloquence her balmy side;

206       As though a tongueless nightingale should swell

207Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.

208       A casement high and triple-arch'd there was,

209       All garlanded with carven imag'ries

210       Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,

211       And diamonded with panes of quaint device,

212       Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,

213       As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings;

214       And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,

215       And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,

216A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings.

217       Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,

218       And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,

219       As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon;

220       Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,

221       And on her silver cross soft amethyst,

222       And on her hair a glory, like a saint:

223       She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest,

224       Save wings, for heaven:—Porphyro grew faint:

225She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.

226       Anon his heart revives: her vespers done,

227       Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;

228       Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;

229       Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees

230       Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees:

231       Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,

232       Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,

233       In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed,

234But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.

235       Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,

236       In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay,

237       Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd

238       Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;

239       Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;

240       Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain;

241       Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray;

242       Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,

243As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.

244       Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced,

245       Porphyro gaz'd upon her empty dress,

246       And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced

247       To wake into a slumberous tenderness;

248       Which when he heard, that minute did he bless,

249       And breath'd himself: then from the closet crept,

250       Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,

251       And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept,

252And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo!—how fast she slept.

253       Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon

254       Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set

255       A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon

256       A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:—

257       O for some drowsy Morphean amulet!

258       The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,

259       The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet,

260       Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:—

261The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.

262       And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,

263       In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd,

264       While he forth from the closet brought a heap

265       Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd;

266       With jellies soother than the creamy curd,

267       And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon;

268       Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd

269       From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,

270From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon.

271       These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand

272       On golden dishes and in baskets bright

273       Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand

274       In the retired quiet of the night,

275       Filling the chilly room with perfume light.—

276       "And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake!

277       Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite:

278       Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake,

279Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache."

280       Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm

281       Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream

282       By the dusk curtains:—'twas a midnight charm

283       Impossible to melt as iced stream:

284       The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam;

285       Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies:

286       It seem'd he never, never could redeem

287       From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes;

288So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies.

289       Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,—

290       Tumultuous,—and, in chords that tenderest be,

291       He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute,

292       In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans mercy":

293       Close to her ear touching the melody;—

294       Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan:

295       He ceas'd—she panted quick—and suddenly

296       Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:

297Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.

298       Her eyes were open, but she still beheld,

299       Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep:

300       There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd

301       The blisses of her dream so pure and deep

302       At which fair Madeline began to weep,

303       And moan forth witless words with many a sigh;

304       While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep;

305       Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye,

306Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly.

307       "Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now

308       Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,

309       Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;

310       And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:

311       How chang'd thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear!

312       Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,

313       Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!

314       Oh leave me not in this eternal woe,

315For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go."

316       Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far

317       At these voluptuous accents, he arose

318       Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star

319       Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose;

320       Into her dream he melted, as the rose

321       Blendeth its odour with the violet,—

322       Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows

323       Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet

324Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set.

325       'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet:

326       "This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!"

327       'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat:

328       "No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine!

329       Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.—

330       Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring?

331       I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine,

332       Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;—

333A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing."

334       "My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride!

335       Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest?

336       Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and vermeil dyed?

337       Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest

338       After so many hours of toil and quest,

339       A famish'd pilgrim,—saved by miracle.

340       Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest

341       Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well

342To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.

343       "Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land,

344       Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:

345       Arise—arise! the morning is at hand;—

346       The bloated wassaillers will never heed:—

347       Let us away, my love, with happy speed;

348       There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,—

349       Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead:

350       Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be,

351For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee."

352       She hurried at his words, beset with fears,

353       For there were sleeping dragons all around,

354       At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears—

355       Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.—

356       In all the house was heard no human sound.

357       A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door;

358       The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,

359       Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar;

360And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.

361       They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;

362       Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide;

363       Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,

364       With a huge empty flaggon by his side:

365       The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,

366       But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:

367       By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:—

368       The chains lie silent on the footworn stones;—

369The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.

370       And they are gone: ay, ages long ago

371       These lovers fled away into the storm.

372       That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe,

373       And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form

374       Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm,

375       Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the old

376       Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform;

377       The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,

378For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold.

The Full Text of “The Eve of St. Agnes”

1St. Agnes' Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was!

2       The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;

3       The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,

4       And silent was the flock in woolly fold:

5       Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told

6       His rosary, and while his frosted breath,

7       Like pious incense from a censer old,

8       Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death,

9Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.

10       His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;

11       Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,

12       And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,

13       Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:

14       The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze,

15       Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails:

16       Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries,

17       He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails

18To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.

19       Northward he turneth through a little door,

20       And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue

21       Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor;

22       But no—already had his deathbell rung;

23       The joys of all his life were said and sung:

24       His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve:

25       Another way he went, and soon among

26       Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve,

27And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve.

28       That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;

29       And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide,

30       From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,

31       The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide:

32       The level chambers, ready with their pride,

33       Were glowing to receive a thousand guests:

34       The carved angels, ever eager-eyed,

35       Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice rests,

36With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts.

37       At length burst in the argent revelry,

38       With plume, tiara, and all rich array,

39       Numerous as shadows haunting faerily

40       The brain, new stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay

41       Of old romance. These let us wish away,

42       And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there,

43       Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,

44       On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care,

45As she had heard old dames full many times declare.

46       They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve,

47       Young virgins might have visions of delight,

48       And soft adorings from their loves receive

49       Upon the honey'd middle of the night,

50       If ceremonies due they did aright;

51       As, supperless to bed they must retire,

52       And couch supine their beauties, lily white;

53       Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require

54Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.

55       Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline:

56       The music, yearning like a God in pain,

57       She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine,

58       Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train

59       Pass by—she heeded not at all: in vain

60       Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,

61       And back retir'd, not cool'd by high disdain;

62       But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere:

63She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year.

64       She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes,

65       Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short:

66       The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs

67       Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort

68       Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;

69       'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,

70       Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort,

71       Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn,

72And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.

73       So, purposing each moment to retire,

74       She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors,

75       Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire

76       For Madeline. Beside the portal doors,

77       Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores

78       All saints to give him sight of Madeline,

79       But for one moment in the tedious hours,

80       That he might gaze and worship all unseen;

81Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss—in sooth such things have been.

82       He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell:

83       All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords

84       Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel:

85       For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes,

86       Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords,

87       Whose very dogs would execrations howl

88       Against his lineage: not one breast affords

89       Him any mercy, in that mansion foul,

90Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul.

91       Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came,

92       Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand,

93       To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame,

94       Behind a broad half-pillar, far beyond

95       The sound of merriment and chorus bland:

96       He startled her; but soon she knew his face,

97       And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand,

98       Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place;

99They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race!

100       "Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand;

101       He had a fever late, and in the fit

102       He cursed thee and thine, both house and land:

103       Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit

104       More tame for his gray hairs—Alas me! flit!

105       Flit like a ghost away."—"Ah, Gossip dear,

106       We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit,

107       And tell me how"—"Good Saints! not here, not here;

108Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier."

109       He follow'd through a lowly arched way,

110       Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume,

111       And as she mutter'd "Well-a—well-a-day!"

112       He found him in a little moonlight room,

113       Pale, lattic'd, chill, and silent as a tomb.

114       "Now tell me where is Madeline," said he,

115       "O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom

116       Which none but secret sisterhood may see,

117When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously."

118       "St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve—

119       Yet men will murder upon holy days:

120       Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve,

121       And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays,

122       To venture so: it fills me with amaze

123       To see thee, Porphyro!—St. Agnes' Eve!

124       God's help! my lady fair the conjuror plays

125       This very night: good angels her deceive!

126But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve."

127       Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon,

128       While Porphyro upon her face doth look,

129       Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone

130       Who keepeth clos'd a wond'rous riddle-book,

131       As spectacled she sits in chimney nook.

132       But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told

133       His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook

134       Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold,

135And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old.

136       Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,

137       Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart

138       Made purple riot: then doth he propose

139       A stratagem, that makes the beldame start:

140       "A cruel man and impious thou art:

141       Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream

142       Alone with her good angels, far apart

143       From wicked men like thee. Go, go!—I deem

144Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem."

145       "I will not harm her, by all saints I swear,"

146       Quoth Porphyro: "O may I ne'er find grace

147       When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer,

148       If one of her soft ringlets I displace,

149       Or look with ruffian passion in her face:

150       Good Angela, believe me by these tears;

151       Or I will, even in a moment's space,

152       Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears,

153And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears."

154       "Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul?

155       A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing,

156       Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll;

157       Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening,

158       Were never miss'd."—Thus plaining, doth she bring

159       A gentler speech from burning Porphyro;

160       So woful, and of such deep sorrowing,

161       That Angela gives promise she will do

162Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe.

163       Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy,

164       Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide

165       Him in a closet, of such privacy

166       That he might see her beauty unespy'd,

167       And win perhaps that night a peerless bride,

168       While legion'd faeries pac'd the coverlet,

169       And pale enchantment held her sleepy-ey'd.

170       Never on such a night have lovers met,

171Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.

172       "It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame:

173       "All cates and dainties shall be stored there

174       Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame

175       Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare,

176       For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare

177       On such a catering trust my dizzy head.

178       Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer

179       The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed,

180Or may I never leave my grave among the dead."

181       So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear.

182       The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd;

183       The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear

184       To follow her; with aged eyes aghast

185       From fright of dim espial. Safe at last,

186       Through many a dusky gallery, they gain

187       The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd, and chaste;

188       Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain.

189His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.

190       Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade,

191       Old Angela was feeling for the stair,

192       When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid,

193       Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware:

194       With silver taper's light, and pious care,

195       She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led

196       To a safe level matting. Now prepare,

197       Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed;

198She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled.

199       Out went the taper as she hurried in;

200       Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:

201       She clos'd the door, she panted, all akin

202       To spirits of the air, and visions wide:

203       No uttered syllable, or, woe betide!

204       But to her heart, her heart was voluble,

205       Paining with eloquence her balmy side;

206       As though a tongueless nightingale should swell

207Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.

208       A casement high and triple-arch'd there was,

209       All garlanded with carven imag'ries

210       Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,

211       And diamonded with panes of quaint device,

212       Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,

213       As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings;

214       And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,

215       And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,

216A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings.

217       Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,

218       And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,

219       As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon;

220       Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,

221       And on her silver cross soft amethyst,

222       And on her hair a glory, like a saint:

223       She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest,

224       Save wings, for heaven:—Porphyro grew faint:

225She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.

226       Anon his heart revives: her vespers done,

227       Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;

228       Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;

229       Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees

230       Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees:

231       Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,

232       Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,

233       In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed,

234But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.

235       Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,

236       In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay,

237       Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd

238       Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;

239       Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;

240       Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain;

241       Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray;

242       Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,

243As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.

244       Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced,

245       Porphyro gaz'd upon her empty dress,

246       And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced

247       To wake into a slumberous tenderness;

248       Which when he heard, that minute did he bless,

249       And breath'd himself: then from the closet crept,

250       Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,

251       And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept,

252And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo!—how fast she slept.

253       Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon

254       Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set

255       A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon

256       A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:—

257       O for some drowsy Morphean amulet!

258       The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,

259       The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet,

260       Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:—

261The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.

262       And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,

263       In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd,

264       While he forth from the closet brought a heap

265       Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd;

266       With jellies soother than the creamy curd,

267       And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon;

268       Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd

269       From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,

270From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon.

271       These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand

272       On golden dishes and in baskets bright

273       Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand

274       In the retired quiet of the night,

275       Filling the chilly room with perfume light.—

276       "And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake!

277       Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite:

278       Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake,

279Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache."

280       Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm

281       Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream

282       By the dusk curtains:—'twas a midnight charm

283       Impossible to melt as iced stream:

284       The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam;

285       Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies:

286       It seem'd he never, never could redeem

287       From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes;

288So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies.

289       Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,—

290       Tumultuous,—and, in chords that tenderest be,

291       He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute,

292       In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans mercy":

293       Close to her ear touching the melody;—

294       Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan:

295       He ceas'd—she panted quick—and suddenly

296       Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:

297Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.

298       Her eyes were open, but she still beheld,

299       Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep:

300       There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd

301       The blisses of her dream so pure and deep

302       At which fair Madeline began to weep,

303       And moan forth witless words with many a sigh;

304       While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep;

305       Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye,

306Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly.

307       "Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now

308       Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,

309       Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;

310       And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:

311       How chang'd thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear!

312       Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,

313       Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!

314       Oh leave me not in this eternal woe,

315For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go."

316       Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far

317       At these voluptuous accents, he arose

318       Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star

319       Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose;

320       Into her dream he melted, as the rose

321       Blendeth its odour with the violet,—

322       Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows

323       Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet

324Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set.

325       'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet:

326       "This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!"

327       'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat:

328       "No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine!

329       Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.—

330       Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring?

331       I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine,

332       Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;—

333A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing."

334       "My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride!

335       Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest?

336       Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and vermeil dyed?

337       Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest

338       After so many hours of toil and quest,

339       A famish'd pilgrim,—saved by miracle.

340       Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest

341       Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well

342To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.

343       "Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land,

344       Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:

345       Arise—arise! the morning is at hand;—

346       The bloated wassaillers will never heed:—

347       Let us away, my love, with happy speed;

348       There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,—

349       Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead:

350       Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be,

351For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee."

352       She hurried at his words, beset with fears,

353       For there were sleeping dragons all around,

354       At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears—

355       Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.—

356       In all the house was heard no human sound.

357       A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door;

358       The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,

359       Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar;

360And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.

361       They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;

362       Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide;

363       Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,

364       With a huge empty flaggon by his side:

365       The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,

366       But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:

367       By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:—

368       The chains lie silent on the footworn stones;—

369The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.

370       And they are gone: ay, ages long ago

371       These lovers fled away into the storm.

372       That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe,

373       And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form

374       Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm,

375       Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the old

376       Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform;

377       The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,

378For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold.

  • “The Eve of St. Agnes” Introduction

    • "The Eve of St. Agnes"—first published in Lamia, Isabella, the Eve of St. Agnes, and Other Poems (1820)—is Romantic poet John Keats's tale of passion, legends, danger, and dreams. In this narrative poem, Porphyro, a young nobleman, creeps into the castle of his enemies to catch a glimpse of his love, the beautiful Madeline. Madeline happens to be performing a magical ritual that very night, calling on St. Agnes to send her a dream of her future husband. Porphyro decides he'll do her one better and creeps into her bedroom to make her dream a reality. This poem explores both the power of sexual passion and the dangerous allure of fantasy.

  • “The Eve of St. Agnes” Summary

    • It was the night before the feast day of St. Agnes in late January—and oh, it was cold! Even the feathery owl felt the chill. The shivering hare hopped feebly through frosty grass, and the sheep were quiet in their pen. The Beadsman (a holy man paid to pray for the souls of a noble family) felt his fingers going numb on his prayer beads. His breath looked like incense smoke, or as if it were flying up to heaven like a spirit (though he hadn't died); it rose up past an image of the Virgin Mary as he prayed.

      This long-suffering, pious old beadsman finished his prayers, then took his lamp, got up, and made his way (scrawny, barefoot, and pale) slowly through the church. The stone tombs on either side of the aisle, carved to look like the dead people they contained, seemed frozen too, and looked as if they were trapped in Purgatory behind their iron railings. There were statues of knights and ladies, who all seem to be silently praying in their little chapels as the beadsman passed them. He felt frightened as he thought of how cold those statues must be in their frigid stone clothes and armor.

      The beadsman turned north through a small door, and had barely taken three steps before a surge of gorgeous music moved this pitiful old man to tears. But it was too late for him; he was on the verge of death; all the delights of life were past him now. He had a steep price to pay on the evening of St. Agnes's festival. He didn't go toward the music, but instead went and sat in the cold ashes of a fire, praying constantly for sinners' souls.

      That old beadsman had heard musicians warming up because all the doors in the castle were open as people scurried around, preparing. Soon, from up above, harsh trumpet music began to play, and the castle's elegant rooms were lit up, ready for a huge party. Watchful stone angels stared down from the ceiling, with their hair streaming back and their wings crossed over their chests.

      Soon the silvery, glittering partiers rushed in, decked out in feathers and crowns and all kinds of luxurious clothing. There were so many of them that they were like shadows of childhood memories—memories of reading bright, beautiful stories of knights and chivalry. But let's turn aside from those memories and focus on a single lady who was attending this party. That whole day, she had been thinking hard about love, and especially about the legend of St. Agnes, which she'd heard from old women a thousand times.

      Those old women had told this lady that, on St. Agnes's Eve, unmarried young women would be visited by their true loves in their sweet midnight dreams if they correctly performed this ritual: they had to go to bed without dinner, lie their beautiful selves down on their backs, and never look around them, but instead look up and pray to Heaven for their desires to be fulfilled.

      The lady, Madeline, couldn't stop thinking about performing this ritual. The powerful, longing music hardly touched her. Her beautiful eyes stared at the floor, where many gorgeous dresses swept by, but she didn't notice them at all. And without success, plenty of lovestruck knights crept up to her and were rebuffed (though their desire wasn't muted by her indifference to them)—she didn't even see them. Her heart was somewhere else. She just wanted to have her St. Agnes dream, the best dream of the whole year.

      She spent the whole party dancing without seeing anything around her, looking nervously tight-lipped and breathing fast. It was almost the holy hour for her bedtime ritual. She sighed amongst the jingle of tambourines and amongst the crowd's angry or joking whispers, amongst glances of love, resistance, hate, and disdain. She was so blinded by the magic of her imagination that she was dead to everything but the thought of St. Agnes and the woolly lambs that are her symbol, and all the delights she would get from her dreams before the next morning.

      Lost in her imagination this way, though she intended to go to bed any second, she stayed on at the party. Meanwhile, across the wild open countryside, the young knight Porphyro had traveled, spurred on by his blazing love for Madeline. He hid in the shadows by the castle's front doors, and begged the saints to show him just a glimpse of his beloved, even just one moment out of all these long dull hours, so that he could stare at her and adore her secretly. Maybe he could even speak to her, or kneel to her, or touch her, or kiss her—truly, that kind of thing happens sometimes!

      He crept into the castle. There couldn't be even a whisper or a glimpse of him, or myriad enemies would stab him right in the heart, the fortress of all his burning love. This castle's rooms were full of bloodthirsty foes, hyena-like enemies, and hot-tempered noblemen; even their dogs would have barked curses at Porphyro and his whole family. Not a single person in that rotten castle had any kindness for him—except one frail old lady.

      What luck! Here came that old lady came now with her ivory walking stick, past where Porphyro was hiding behind a pillar, far away from the sounds of partying and sweet music. He surprised her, but she quickly recognized him, and grabbed his hand with her own ancient shaking one, crying, "Oh my goodness, Porphyro! Get out of here! They're all here tonight, Madeline's whole murderous family!

      "Get out of here! Get out! There's the malformed, shrunken Hildebrand; he had a feverish illness recently, and while he was convulsing he cursed you and your family and your home. Then there's old Lord Maurice, who hasn't gotten any gentler now that he's going gray. Oh no! Hurry! Hurry away like a ghost." "Oh, my dear chatty old lady, we're perfectly safe. Sit down in this comfy chair and tell me—" "By the saints! No, not here. Come with me, young man, or this stony hallway will be your deathbed."

      Porphyro followed the old woman through a low arch, catching his feathered hat on the cobwebs, while she mumbled "Oh dear, oh dear!" They came to a tiny moonlit room, lit faintly by a latticed window and as cold and silent as the grave. "Tell me, where's Madeline?" said Porphyro. "Come on, Angela, tell me, in the name of the sacred loom upon which nuns weave the wool consecrated to St. Agnes."

      "St. Agnes! That's right! It's St. Agnes' Eve. But sacred days don't stop men from killing each other. You must be some sorcerer, able to carry water in a sieve, or the King of the Fairies himself, to show this kind of crazy bravery. It amazes me to see you, Porphyro! St. Agnes' Eve—so help me God. My lady Madeline is pretending she's a magician tonight—and here's hoping the kindly angels will trick her with the vision she wants! But you've got to let me laugh a little, I'll have plenty of time to be sad."

      Angela laughed weakly in the moonlight, while Porphyro looked at her in confusion, like a little kid looks at an old woman who won't share her wonderful jokebook while she sits reading, wearing her glasses, in her cozy spot by the fire. But soon, his eyes shone, when Angela described Madeline's St. Agnes ritual. He could hardly hold back tears as he thought about the spells Madeline was trying to cast, and imagined her deep in her enchanted sleep.

      A new thought struck him like a rose suddenly blooming, making him blush and setting his heart pounding. He suggested his big idea to Angela, and she jumped with shock: "You're a nasty, impertinent man! Let sweet Madeline say her prayers and go to sleep alone with the angels, left alone by jerks like you. Get out of here! I see you can't be the man I thought you were."

      "I swear by the saints I won't hurt her," said Porphyro. "Let me be damned to Hell on my deathbed if I touch a hair on her head, or look at her with brutish lust. Angela, believe me, in the name of the tears I'm crying—or I'll shout and let all my enemies know I'm here, and fight them all, even if they were as fierce as wild animals."

      "Oh! Why are you trying to frighten me, a frail old woman? I'm nothing but a feeble old lady who might die before the clock even strikes midnight. And I pray for you every day!" Angela's pitiful whining made the impassioned Porphyro a little gentler. And in fact, he made such a tragic and moving speech that Angela ended up promising to do whatever he asked her, whether it brought her good fortune or bad.

      Porphyro's plan was this: Angela would lead him to Madeline's bedroom, and hide him in a closet. From there, he could secretly gaze on Madeline's beauty, and perhaps win her for his wife while she laid in bed, with the fairies who bring dreams walking over her blankets, and magic keeping her asleep. There had never been a night like this for lovers to meet since the wizard Merlin was locked up by his beloved Vivien.

      "Okay, we'll do it the way you want," said Angela. "It'll be easy to stash some delicious treats from the party in Madeline's room, and you'll find Madeline's lute over by her embroidery frame. There's no time to waste: I'm slow and frail, and I can hardly trust myself to help you carry this plan out. Wait here patiently, young Porphyro, and say your prayers. Oh! You'll have to marry Madeline, or may I go straight to Hell."

      With those words, she limped fearfully away. Porphyro waited for minutes that felt like an eternity until she came back, and whispered that he should follow her, with her old eyes reflecting her deep fear that they might be discovered. Finally, they came to a safe place, after walking through many dusty old halls: Madeline's bedroom, luxuriously soft, quiet, and unvisited by men. Here, Porphyro hid himself in a closet, delighted. Angela scurried away, sick with worry.

      Angela was feebly trying to find her way down the dark stairs when Madeline, still wrapped up in her St. Agnes' Eve spell, came up the stairs like a ghost. By candlelight, she turned and lovingly led Angela downstairs to the safety of the ground floor. Now, Porphyro, get ready to look at Madeline in bed! She was on her way back to her room, hurrying like a frightened dove.

      Her candle went out as she came into the room, and its last wisp of smoke disappeared in the pale moonlight. She closed the door behind her, breathing fast, as if she herself were a spirit or a vision. She couldn't say a word, or, terrible fate, her spell would be broken. But her heart had plenty to say to itself, pounding as if speaking in her sweet chest. Her heart was like a mute songbird trying to sing, but failing, and dying of its unexpressed feelings in the woods.

      There was a high, three-arched window in the room, lavishly ornamented with carved fruits and flowers and plants, and with diamond-shaped decorative windowpanes of countless gorgeous colors, as variegated as a tiger-moth's wings, which look like rich embroidery. In the middle of these decorative windows, among images of family crests and dimly-lit saints and faint images, there was a noble coat of arms red as royal blood.

      The winter moon shone straight in through this window and made Madeline's chest glow a rich red as she knelt down to say her prayers. Rosy pink light illuminated her praying hands; soft purple light fell on the silver cross she wore; and a golden halo fell around her head, as if she were a saint. She looked like a glorious angel, just raised to heaven (all except the wings). Porphyro felt dizzy to see her kneeling there, so holy-looking and so pure.

      He recovered quickly when Madeline finished her prayers and started loosening her hair from its garlands of pearls. She unfastened her jewelry (warmed from her skin) piece by piece, and unlaced her perfumed dress. Little by little, her elegant clothing fell to her knees. Half-undressed and partly hidden by her fallen clothes, like a mermaid in a patch of seaweed, Madeline got lost in her imagination, and imagined that St. Agnes herself was in bed behind her—but she didn't turn around and look, for fear of spoiling the enchantment.

      Soon, shivering in her soft, cold bed, in a kind of waking dream, Madeline lay entranced, until the opium-like warmth of sleep weighed down her body, and her soul slipped exhaustedly away, flying off as lightly as a thought until tomorrow. She was pleasurably safe from both delight and unhappiness, closed up by sleep as tightly as a Catholic prayer-book is locked shut in a Muslim country; she was equally unresponsive to sun and storms, as if a rose in full bloom could wrap itself up and be a bud once more.

      Hidden secretly in the paradise of Madeline's bedroom, hypnotized by the beauty of what he had just seen, Porphyro stared at Madeline's dress where it lay on the floor, and listened to the sound of Madeline's breathing to hear when it sounded like she was asleep. As soon as he heard that she was sleeping, he rejoiced, and let his own breath out. Then, he snuck out of the closet, silent as fear itself in a forbidding landscape, and tiptoed over the carpet to peek between the bed curtains, where—see there! How deeply Madeline was asleep.

      By Madeline's bedside, in the dim moonlight, Porphyro quietly set up a table, and with almost painful care, he spread it with a tablecloth of rich red, gold, and black. He wished he had some magic token that might make sure Madeline would keep dreaming! The music of the party's horns, drums, and distant pipes frightened him, though they came from far away—but then, a door shut somewhere in the hall, and the noise died down again.

      Madeline slept deeply on under her blue-veined eyelids, lying in bleached, soft, lavender-scented linen, while Porphyro went into the closet again and brought out a pile of candied fruits, jellies even smoother and softer than those fruits' flesh, and clear sweet cinnamon syrups; he brought out sweet manna resin and dates, shipped from the city of Fez in Morocco; he brought out a thousand delicate spiced treats from all across the world, from luxurious Samarcand to cedar-forested Lebanon.

      With hands that seemed to shine, he piled these treats on silver and gold dishes. This delicious banquet glowed in the night, filling the cold room with soft scents. "And now, my darling, my beautiful angel, wake up! You are my paradise, and I am a monk who worships you. Open your eyes, for the sake of gentle St. Agnes, or I'll lie down and die right next to you, my soul hurts so much."

      As he whispered this, Porphyro leaned over Madeline so that his warm, nervous arm sunk into her pillow. Madeline dreamed on in the shadows of her bedcurtains; her sleep was so deep it was enchanted, as unmeltable as a frozen stream. The shining dishes glinted in the moonlight; the carpet's golden fringe lay still. Porphyro felt as if he'd never be able to wake Madeline up from the deep enchantment of her dream, so he just pondered her for a while, tangled up in the web of his own imagination.

      After a moment, he came back to himself, and grabbed Madeline's lute in a frenzy of emotion. With a few sweet chords, he struck up an old song, now long-forgotten, a French Provencal song called "The beautiful lady without pity." He played it close to Madeline's ear—and at last, she stirred, and moaned quietly. Porphyro stopped playing, Madeline breathed hard, and all at once her frightened blue eyes opened wide. Porphyro fell to his knees, as pale as a marble statue.

      Though Madeline's eyes were open now, what she saw, awake, was the same thing that she'd seen while she was asleep. But that vision was terribly changed, and almost destroyed the joys of her dream. Madeline started crying and babbling nonsense words, still staring at Porphyro—who was on his knees, clasping his hands together and looking sad and worried, afraid to move or say anything while Madeline looked so much as if she were still dreaming.

      "Oh, Porphyro!" she said. "Just a second ago I heard your voice quavering in my ear, musically promising everything I desired, and your sad eyes were angelic and untroubled. But you're so different now! You look so pale, cold, and dismal! Sing to me again the way you did in my dream, Porphyro: give me back that angelic look and those sweet songs! Don't leave me in this bottomless misery: because if you die, my darling, I have no idea what I'll do."

      Given the passion of a god by Madeline's delicious words, Porphyro got to his feet, looking as intensely spiritual and shining as a pulsating star in the depths of the night sky. He sank into Madeline's dream (and her arms), and the two mingled like the scent of a rose mixing with the scent of a violet into a sweet new combination. Meanwhile, the icy wind blew like a warning from the god of Love, rattling sleet against the window: the moon of St. Agnes' Eve had gone down.

      It was dark: the storm-blown sleet rattled against the window. "This isn't a dream, my bride-to-be, my Madeline!" It was dark: the icy winds kept wailing and lashing. "No, it isn't a dream! Oh no! And that's what makes me miserable! Porphyro, you'll abandon me here to fade away as I long for you. You're so unkind! What kind of treachery could have brought you here? But I don't blame you, because I'm so deeply in love with you, though I expect you to abandon me; I'll be like a lost dove with a broken wing when you go."

      "Dearest Madeline! My sweet dreamer! My gorgeous bride-to-be! Please, let me be your lucky servant forever. I'll be the protector of your beauty, like a shield in the shape of a big red heart. Oh, my silvery temple, I'll rest at your feet like a weary, starving religious wanderer, rescued by the miracle that is you. I've come to your bed, but I won't steal anything—except you yourself, if you're willing to trust yourself to me, believing I'm no unfaithful jerk.

      "Listen! That's an enchanted storm blowing outside. It sounds ugly, but for us it's a piece of good fortune. Get up quick! It's almost morning, and the drunken partiers won't hear us. Let's get out of here, darling, as fast as we can. There's no one around to hear us or see us—they're all sleeping off their German wines and honey-beer. Get up! Get up, my darling, and have no fear: I've prepared a home for you across the southern wilderness."

      Believing his words, Madeline hurried out of bed, though she was terrified: her bloodthirsty relatives were all around them, dangerous as dragons. Maybe there were even some still awake, prepared with weapons. But together, Madeline and Porphyro crept down the dark stairs. The castle was perfectly silent. Lamps hung from chains by the doors, and the tapestries (depicting hunting scenes) flapped in the winds from the storm outside, and the carpets billowed up in the gusts.

      The lovers moved like ghosts into the hall, and like ghosts they went out to the great iron entrance of the castle. The doorman was drunkenly asleep there, with a big empty tankard next to him. His dog woke up and shook itself, but it recognized Madeline and didn't bark. One by one, the door's bolts slid easily, and its chains lay undisturbed on the worn stone floor. The key turned, and the door creaked open.

      And with that, the lovers were gone: yes, long, long ago, the lovers escaped into the stormy night. That evening, the Baron had nightmares, and all his bloodthirsty guests were haunted by dreams of witches, devils, and maggots. Old Angela died twitching, with her shriveled face misshapen by paralysis. The Beadsman, having said a thousand Hail Marys, died, forever unnoticed, in the cold ashes of his fire.

  • “The Eve of St. Agnes” Themes

    • Theme The Power of Passion

      The Power of Passion

      In “The Eve of St. Agnes,” two young lovers, Madeline and Porphyro, find themselves in a Romeo and Juliet dilemma: they come from families whose hatred for each other is as icy-cold as the winter snows outside. The young couple’s passion for each other, however, creates a brief refuge from these terrible surroundings. Through this respite, the poem suggests that love and desire have the power to light up an otherwise cruel world. Love can create moments of pure beauty and warmth within a harsh reality—and maybe even make life worth living.

      When Madeline and Porphyro aren’t together, the world feels like an icy and menacing place. Surrounded by the “sculptured tombs” of the dead, Madeline’s “hyena”-like and bloodthirsty family, and the “bitter chill” of the winter night outside, the couple live in a pretty unforgiving environment.

      But when Madeline and Porphyro come together, their passion creates moments of gorgeous, life-giving respite. Peeping at his beloved Madeline as she says her evening prayers and gets undressed, Porphyro sees her lit up “like a saint” and is sensuously hypnotized by the thought of her “warmed jewels” and “fragrant boddice.” Because he loves her so intensely, her simple, everyday act of getting ready for bed becomes a moment of transcendent, timeless loveliness for him. He becomes “entranced,” pulled out of normal reality into a world of beauty.

      Madeline’s passion for Porphyro is just as powerful and consoling. In a dream, she sees him as a figure with “looks immortal”: her love for him makes him seem like a god to her, bigger and better than everyday people. And when she wakes up and sees him, while she’s at first upset to find that he’s mortal after all (and therefore killable by her bloodthirsty relatives), the intensity of the love Porphyro hears in the “voluptuous accents” of her voice makes him “above a mortal man impassion’d far”: as the two embrace and “melt” into each other, they share a moment of heavenly passion that does seem to make them briefly immortal, taking them far away from the cruel reality of death.

      The poem doesn’t argue that love solves every problem: at the end of the poem, when Madeline and Porphyro escape the castle, readers never learn whether they make it to their new “home” or merely disappear into the storm, and the poem ends with the ugly, lonely deaths of Angela and the Beadsman—frail old people, just like Porphyro and Madeline will be one day if they survive. But while passion isn’t a cure-all, it’s a deep and important consolation in a world that’s often cold and cruel. The world might be beset with death, disease, and hatred, the poem suggests, but love can create moments of enchanting consolation that provide a refuge from harsh reality.

    • Theme Dreams vs. Reality

      Dreams vs. Reality

      The events of “The Eve of St. Agnes” center on a dream: Madeline’s elaborate ritual is meant to give her a bedtime vision of her future husband. She gets the dream she wanted, but she also gets more than she bargained for: when she wakes up and finds her real-life dream-lover staring right at her, she cries, upset that he’s a regular old mortal man rather than an immortal figure of perfection. Dreams and the imagination, the poem suggests, may be more enchanting and enticing than real life, but they’re also more fragile. Their delightfulness is also their danger: get too seduced by a dream, and real life might look pretty disappointing in comparison!

      An important part of Madeline’s dream ritual is that she never look behind her as she gets ready for bed. Dreams, this image suggests, are fragile things, always on the verge of being broken open by reality. As she undresses, Madeline has a feeling that St. Agnes herself—the saint who’s supposed to grant young maidens a vision of their future husbands—is actually in her bed waiting for her, “But dares not look behind or all the charm is fled.” Looking directly at an imaginative vision, this moment suggests, can make it evaporate completely.

      And in fact, the “charm” of dreams seems to be fleeting even when they come true. When Madeline wakes up and finds the literal man of her dreams next to her, she’s not delighted, but upset to the point of tears. Seeing him in the flesh reminds her that he’s not a godlike, immortal lover, but a human man who will one day die. Plain old reality, the poem suggests, always looks a bit disappointing after a beautiful dream.

      “’How chang’d thou art! How pallid, chill, and drear!’” Madeline cries when she sees Porphyro’s living face. Her real lover, she understands, is mortal—and that means that she can lose him. This “painful change” makes her long for his “’looks immortal’” back: she prefers her dream-Porphyro to the real deal!

      Nevertheless, Madeline’s dreams of true love with Porphyro also motivate her to escape her bloodthirsty family. The two young lovers’ dreams do have a real-world power, giving them the courage to get out the door into the world beyond. Dreams might be fragile and fleeting, the poem finally suggests, but they also have the power to shape the solid world.

    • Theme Death and Mortality

      Death and Mortality

      “The Eve of St. Agnes” surrounds its lush, sensuous romance with stark images of death. From the icy “sculptur’d” stone tombs at the beginning of the poem to the old nursemaid Angela’s grim and twitchy demise at the end, death is a constant presence here, warning readers that even beautiful young lovers like Madeline and Porphyro end up old (if they’re lucky!) and dead—and encouraging them to embrace life while they can.

      Beginning and ending with images of tombs and bodies, the poem reminds readers that death is the ultimate reality: everyone ends up in the grave one day. At the outset, the elderly Beadsman (a holy man charged with constantly praying for the souls of Madeline’s family) creeps between rows of the dead in their “sculptur’d tombs”: “knights and ladies” who were once young and beautiful, just like Madeline and Porphyro. And at the end of the poem, both the Beadsman and Angela (Madeline’s old maidservant) have died deeply unromantic deaths: Angela dies “palsy-twitch’d, with meagre face deform,” shriveled, ill, and misshapen. And the Beadsman dies utterly alone, “unsought for” among cold ashes. The “Baron” (Madeline’s father) and his party guests, meanwhile, dream of “coffin-worm[s],” the maggots that will devour them all one day.

      The poem’s repeated focus on the decay of Angela’s and the Beadman’s frail old bodies, often called “meagre,” “frail,” and “weak,” forms a harsh contrast with its images of Madeline’s and Porphyro’s fresh, warm young “beauties.” Youth is brief, the poem reminds readers, and infirmity and death come to everyone. But that’s also why passion and the imagination matter. Deeply embrace sensuous youth and gorgeous visions, the poem urges: they don’t last forever, and death is the final reality.

  • Line-by-Line Explanation & Analysis of “The Eve of St. Agnes”

    • Lines 1-9

      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.

      "The Eve of St. Agnes" begins in the countryside around a castle, deep in a merciless winter. The festival the poem is named after—the day sacred to St. Agnes, the patron saint of young women—falls at the end of January, and in this poem's world, it seems to have been a particularly harsh month. Night has fallen, and everything is "silent" and "bitter chill": the whole world is anxiously frozen. Even the "owl" and the "hare" are shivering as they make their way through the frosty landscape.

      From these pitiful animals, the poem turns to another sorry figure: the Beadsman, a religious servant hired to pray ceaselessly for the souls of a noble family (who presumably have better things to do than praying for their souls themselves). He's called a "Beadsman" because his job is to say the rosary over and over—a kind of prayer counted out on beads. His arrival lets readers know that this poem is set in a distant English past. (The ancient Catholic tradition of constant prayer died out in England after the Reformation in the 15th century.)

      The poem's stanza form also hints that this poem is going to take place in a long-ago world. The eight lines of iambic pentameter (that is, lines of five iambs, metrical feet that go da-DUM) capped with one line of iambic hexameter (six iambs) identifies this as a Spenserian stanza: a form invented and popularized by the Renaissance poet Edmund Spenser in his great verse romance The Faerie Queene. (See the Form, Meter, and Rhyme Scheme sections of this guide for more on that.) That story, with its knights and fair ladies, is going to be a big influence on this one: "The Eve of St. Agnes" is a dyed-in-the-wool romance. That doesn't mean it's a love story—though it will also be that!—but a legendary tale of medieval chivalry and magic.

      Right from the beginning, the poem immerses its reader in this romantic world with rich sensory imagery: the "silen[ce]" of the sheep, the "trembling" of the hare, and the "frosted breath" of the poor old Beadsman as he prays in a frigid chapel. The first of the poem's many vivid similes also appears:

      [...] 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.

      Here, the Beadsman's breath looks like the incense one might burn during a Catholic Mass—a pretty fitting thing for a holy man's breath to look like. But it also looks like a spirit ascending to heaven. This complex simile prepares readers for another of the poem's themes: dreams and the imagination. This is a world in which everything is like a dream, layered with mysterious meanings.

    • Lines 10-27

             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.

    • Lines 28-36

             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.

    • Lines 37-45

             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.

    • Lines 46-54

             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.

    • Lines 55-72

      Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline:
             The music, yearning like a God in pain,
             She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine,
             Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train
             Pass by—she heeded not at all: in vain
             Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,
             And back retir'd, not cool'd by high disdain;
             But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere:
      She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year.
             She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes,
             Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short:
             The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs
             Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort
             Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;
             'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,
             Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort,
             Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn,
      And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.

    • Lines 73-81

             So, purposing each moment to retire,
             She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors,
             Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire
             For Madeline. Beside the portal doors,
             Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores
             All saints to give him sight of Madeline,
             But for one moment in the tedious hours,
             That he might gaze and worship all unseen;
      Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss—in sooth such things have been.

    • Lines 82-90

             He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell:
             All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords
             Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel:
             For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes,
             Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords,
             Whose very dogs would execrations howl
             Against his lineage: not one breast affords
             Him any mercy, in that mansion foul,
      Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul.

    • Lines 91-108

             Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came,
             Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand,
             To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame,
             Behind a broad half-pillar, far beyond
             The sound of merriment and chorus bland:
             He startled her; but soon she knew his face,
             And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand,
             Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place;
      They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race!
             "Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand;
             He had a fever late, and in the fit
             He cursed thee and thine, both house and land:
             Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit
             More tame for his gray hairs—Alas me! flit!
             Flit like a ghost away."—"Ah, Gossip dear,
             We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit,
             And tell me how"—"Good Saints! not here, not here;
      Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier."

    • Lines 109-126

             He follow'd through a lowly arched way,
             Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume,
             And as she mutter'd "Well-a—well-a-day!"
             He found him in a little moonlight room,
             Pale, lattic'd, chill, and silent as a tomb.
             "Now tell me where is Madeline," said he,
             "O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom
             Which none but secret sisterhood may see,
      When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously."
             "St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve—
             Yet men will murder upon holy days:
             Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve,
             And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays,
             To venture so: it fills me with amaze
             To see thee, Porphyro!—St. Agnes' Eve!
             God's help! my lady fair the conjuror plays
             This very night: good angels her deceive!
      But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve."

    • Lines 127-135

             Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon,
             While Porphyro upon her face doth look,
             Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone
             Who keepeth clos'd a wond'rous riddle-book,
             As spectacled she sits in chimney nook.
             But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told
             His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook
             Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold,
      And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old.

    • Lines 136-144

             Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,
             Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart
             Made purple riot: then doth he propose
             A stratagem, that makes the beldame start:
             "A cruel man and impious thou art:
             Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream
             Alone with her good angels, far apart
             From wicked men like thee. Go, go!—I deem
      Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem."

    • Lines 145-162

             "I will not harm her, by all saints I swear,"
             Quoth Porphyro: "O may I ne'er find grace
             When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer,
             If one of her soft ringlets I displace,
             Or look with ruffian passion in her face:
             Good Angela, believe me by these tears;
             Or I will, even in a moment's space,
             Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears,
      And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears."
             "Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul?
             A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing,
             Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll;
             Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening,
             Were never miss'd."—Thus plaining, doth she bring
             A gentler speech from burning Porphyro;
             So woful, and of such deep sorrowing,
             That Angela gives promise she will do
      Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe.

    • Lines 163-171

             Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy,
             Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide
             Him in a closet, of such privacy
             That he might see her beauty unespy'd,
             And win perhaps that night a peerless bride,
             While legion'd faeries pac'd the coverlet,
             And pale enchantment held her sleepy-ey'd.
             Never on such a night have lovers met,
      Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.

    • Lines 172-189

             "It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame:
             "All cates and dainties shall be stored there
             Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame
             Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare,
             For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare
             On such a catering trust my dizzy head.
             Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer
             The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed,
      Or may I never leave my grave among the dead."
             So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear.
             The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd;
             The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear
             To follow her; with aged eyes aghast
             From fright of dim espial. Safe at last,
             Through many a dusky gallery, they gain
             The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd, and chaste;
             Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain.
      His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.

    • Lines 190-198

             Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade,
             Old Angela was feeling for the stair,
             When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid,
             Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware:
             With silver taper's light, and pious care,
             She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led
             To a safe level matting. Now prepare,
             Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed;
      She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled.

    • Lines 199-207

             Out went the taper as she hurried in;
             Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:
             She clos'd the door, she panted, all akin
             To spirits of the air, and visions wide:
             No uttered syllable, or, woe betide!
             But to her heart, her heart was voluble,
             Paining with eloquence her balmy side;
             As though a tongueless nightingale should swell
      Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.

    • Lines 208-216

             A casement high and triple-arch'd there was,
             All garlanded with carven imag'ries
             Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,
             And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
             Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
             As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings;
             And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,
             And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,
      A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings.

    • Lines 217-225

             Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
             And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,
             As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon;
             Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
             And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
             And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
             She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest,
             Save wings, for heaven:—Porphyro grew faint:
      She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.

    • Lines 226-234

             Anon his heart revives: her vespers done,
             Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
             Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
             Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees
             Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees:
             Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,
             Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,
             In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed,
      But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.

    • Lines 235-243

             Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
             In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay,
             Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd
             Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;
             Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;
             Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain;
             Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray;
             Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
      As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.

    • Lines 244-252

             Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced,
             Porphyro gaz'd upon her empty dress,
             And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced
             To wake into a slumberous tenderness;
             Which when he heard, that minute did he bless,
             And breath'd himself: then from the closet crept,
             Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,
             And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept,
      And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo!—how fast she slept.

    • Lines 253-261

             Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon
             Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set
             A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon
             A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:—
             O for some drowsy Morphean amulet!
             The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,
             The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet,
             Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:—
      The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.

    • Lines 262-270

             And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,
             In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd,
             While he forth from the closet brought a heap
             Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd;
             With jellies soother than the creamy curd,
             And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon;
             Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd
             From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,
      From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon.

    • Lines 271-279

             These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand
             On golden dishes and in baskets bright
             Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand
             In the retired quiet of the night,
             Filling the chilly room with perfume light.—
             "And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake!
             Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite:
             Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake,
      Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache."

    • Lines 280-288

             Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm
             Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream
             By the dusk curtains:—'twas a midnight charm
             Impossible to melt as iced stream:
             The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam;
             Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies:
             It seem'd he never, never could redeem
             From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes;
      So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies.

    • Lines 289-297

             Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,—
             Tumultuous,—and, in chords that tenderest be,
             He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute,
             In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans mercy":
             Close to her ear touching the melody;—
             Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan:
             He ceas'd—she panted quick—and suddenly
             Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:
      Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.

    • Lines 298-306

             Her eyes were open, but she still beheld,
             Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep:
             There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd
             The blisses of her dream so pure and deep
             At which fair Madeline began to weep,
             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,
      Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly.

    • Lines 307-315

             "Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now
             Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,
             Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;
             And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:
             How chang'd thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear!
             Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,
             Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!
             Oh leave me not in this eternal woe,
      For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go."

    • Lines 316-324

             Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far
             At these voluptuous accents, he arose
             Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star
             Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose;
             Into her dream he melted, as the rose
             Blendeth its odour with the violet,—
             Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows
             Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet
      Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set.

    • Lines 325-333

             'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet:
             "This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!"
             'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat:
             "No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine!
             Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.—
             Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring?
             I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine,
             Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;—
      A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing."

    • Lines 334-342

             "My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride!
             Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest?
             Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and vermeil dyed?
             Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest
             After so many hours of toil and quest,
             A famish'd pilgrim,—saved by miracle.
             Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest
             Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well
      To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.

    • Lines 343-351

             "Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land,
             Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:
             Arise—arise! the morning is at hand;—
             The bloated wassaillers will never heed:—
             Let us away, my love, with happy speed;
             There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,—
             Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead:
             Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be,
      For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee."

    • Lines 352-360

             She hurried at his words, beset with fears,
             For there were sleeping dragons all around,
             At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears—
             Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.—
             In all the house was heard no human sound.
             A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door;
             The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,
             Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar;
      And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.

    • Lines 361-369

             They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;
             Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide;
             Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,
             With a huge empty flaggon by his side:
             The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,
             But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:
             By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:—
             The chains lie silent on the footworn stones;—
      The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.

    • Lines 370-378

             And they are gone: ay, ages long ago
             These lovers fled away into the storm.
             That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe,
             And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form
             Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm,
             Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the old
             Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform;
             The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,
      For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold.

  • “The Eve of St. Agnes” Symbols

    • Symbol Statues and Carvings

      Statues and Carvings

      The statues and carvings in "The Eve of St. Agnes" symbolize two things at once: the chilly inevitability of death, and the immortalizing power of art.

      Statues first appear in the freezing chapel where the Beadsman sits praying. These aren't just any statues, but carved medieval tombs meant to physically represent their dead inhabitants. The Beadsman doesn't think even of them as statues, but as "Knights" and "ladies," silently praying in their "orat'ries" (or side chapels) just like he is. These statues have an obvious connection to death, but they also remind readers that these knights and ladies were once like the living party guests who are about to begin their dance inside the castle. These earlier generations are long gone now, but through the power of art, they're also still present.

      Statues don't just have the power to keep the dead around, but also to bring impossible beings to life. The "carved angels" in lines 34-36, for example, keep an eternal watch over the goings-on below, and their perpetual "Star[e]" suggests that art has possibilities beyond the human. These angels—like art itself—are both fantastical and immortal.

      Later in the poem, when Porphyro sinks to his knees "pale as smooth-sculptured stone" at the sight of Madeline's opening eyes, both of those earlier stony possibilities come together. When Madeline sees her pale lover, she weeps, imagining him dead as those stony tombs. But if he's a "smooth-sculptured stone," he's also an image of a lover who won't fade and die.

      Stone here thus suggests both the inevitability of death and the way that art can stand up against that inevitability.

    • Symbol Porphyro's Feast

      Porphyro's Feast

      The lavish feast that Porphyro piles up at Madeline's bedside (lines 264-270) is a symbol of sensual pleasure and sexuality.

      All of the foods that Porphyro lays out are sweet, rich, scented, and exotic. Everything is "sooth[]" (or smooth) and "creamy," "candied" and "spiced." This banquet appeals to every sense, up to and including hearing: just listen to the relish of sound in the words "From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon." There's nothing on this table but treats, "dainties"; no hearty soup or wholesome bread, just delectable luxuries.In setting this banquet up, Porphyro isn't merely inviting Madeline to have a nice midnight snack, but to revel in pleasure with him, immersing herself in the world of the senses.

      Funnily enough, though, the pair never actually taste this sumptuous spread: it just stands there gleaming, an image of anticipated and imagined delights. Perhaps, this image suggests, anticipation is its own kind of delicious pleasure.

    • Symbol Warmth and Cold

      Warmth and Cold

      The poem's contrasts between delectable warmth and wintry chill symbolize the contrasts between life and death, pleasure and pain, and youth and old age.

      All through the poem, the speaker insists on the "bitter chill" that surrounds Madeline and Porphyro's "heart[s] on fire." And that chill is often associated with the elderly and the dead: the "icy hoods and mails" of the people carved on the stone tombs, the "ashes cold" in which the Beadsman dies. In the midst of all this cold death, Porphyro and Madeline are "flush'd"; Madeline wears jewels "warmed" by her skin, and Porphyro's "warm unnerved arm" sinks into her pillow as he leans over to wake her. Their youthful passion is like a fire blazing away in midwinter. The juxtaposition of warm and cold imagery suggests that the fires of passionate youth go out eventually—and that this is all the more reason to enjoy them while they last.

      But there's also some deeper complexity in the symbolism here. Madeline's St. Agnes spell is called "these enchantments cold," and her magical sleep is "Impossible to melt as iced stream." The dream-ritual is as cold as those stony tombs in the chapel. Perhaps, this symbolism suggests, embracing old tradition is one way of reconciling brief warm youth with inevitable chilly death. The poem's love of "old romance" is itself a way of marrying warm life and cold death: after all, romance is all about the beauty of a world that's long gone.

    • Symbol The Stained Glass Window

      The Stained Glass Window

      In a clever twist, the stained glass window in Madeline's bedroom becomes a symbol for "The Eve of St. Agnes" itself—and for poetry in general. Windows were one of Keats's favorite symbols for the transporting power of art (see the "Ode to a Nightingale" and "Ode to Psyche" for two more good examples) and this one plays just that role here.

      The speaker spends a whole stanza just looking at this window. Its stone frame is decorated with "fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass"; its panes, colored with "splendid dyes," represent "heraldries" (or family crests), "saints," and "a shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings" (or a heraldic shield depicting a noble family's symbols).

      In other words, this window represents the very world the poem takes place in. All of these images turn up elsewhere in the poem: the "saints" echo St. Agnes herself, the "heraldries" Madeline's noble and warlike family, and the "fruits" and "flowers" the sensual pleasures of Porphyro's feast (and by symbolic extension, the joys of sexuality). This window thus becomes a symbol of the poem itself: a gorgeous work of art representing romantic medieval themes.

      And all of these images are in a window: that is, a thing that you can both see and see through, just like this poem. For instance, when one studies how the poem's sound and shape work, one is looking at the "window"; when one envisions, say, Madeline and Porphyro's embrace, one is looking through the "window."

      Poetry, this symbolic window suggests, has the power both to communicate beautiful images and to preserve them. Unlike human flesh, art doesn't die. Glass (and poetry!) don't last forever, but they last a lot longer than mortal bodies can.

  • “The Eve of St. Agnes” Poetic Devices & Figurative Language

    • Alliteration

      "The Eve of St. Agnes" uses subtle alliteration to evoke the characters' passionate emotions and the castle's dangerous, magical atmosphere. One characteristic alliterative passage turns up in lines 136-139:

      Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,
      Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart
      Made purple riot: then doth he propose
      A stratagem, that makes the beldame start:

      In this important moment, Porphyro has the sudden idea to make Madeline's St. Agnes dream come true by hiding in her bedroom. But the reader doesn't learn exactly what this scheme is until the next stanza. The strong alliteration here draws attention to the mystery. It also mirrors the speed of Porphyro's brainwave: the repetition of /f/ and /b/ sounds here makes the "full-blown rose" speed right into the "Flushing" (or blushing) of Porphyro's "brow" as fast as the blood rushes to his face. And the repeated plosive /p/ sounds in "pained," "purple," and "propose" (strengthened even more by all that internal /p/ consonance) sounds just like what they describe: Porphyro's heart pounding as he tells Angela his scheme. (Angela's displeasure at this idea might be reflected in the sharp hiss of /s/ sounds in "stratagem" and "start.")

      Later, when Porphyro goes through with his scheme and peeps at Madeline as she prays in front of her stained-glass window, sibilant alliteration (and consonance) reflects the hushed mystery of the scene:

      And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
      And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
      She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest,
      Save wings, for heaven:

      Here, quiet /s/ sounds suggest the stillness of the scene—and remind readers how quiet Porphyro has to stay in Madeline's closet to avoid getting caught!

      Across the poem, then, alliteration helps to evoke the characters' intense emotions and to create a mysterious, enchanted atmosphere. We've highlighted a few notable selections here—there's much more to find!

    • Assonance

    • Allusion

    • Caesura

    • Enjambment

    • Imagery

    • Juxtaposition

    • Repetition

    • Simile

    • Metaphor

    • Personification

    • End-Stopped Line

    • Parallelism

  • "The Eve of St. Agnes" Vocabulary

    Select any word below to get its definition in the context of the poem. The words are listed in the order in which they appear in the poem.

    • St. Agnes' Eve
    • The Flock in Woolly Fold
    • Beadsman
    • Rosary
    • Pious
    • Incense
    • Censer
    • The Sweet Virgin's Picture
    • Saith
    • Meagre
    • Sculptur'd Dead
    • Purgatorial
    • Dumb Orat'ries
    • Mails
    • Flatter'd
    • Penance
    • Reprieve
    • Prelude
    • Chambers
    • Cornice
    • The Argent Revelry
    • Faerily
    • Triumphs Gay of Old Romance
    • Sole-thoughted
    • Brooded
    • Dames
    • Honey'd
    • Couch Supine
    • Whim
    • Sweeping Train
    • In Vain
    • Amorous Cavalier
    • Disdain
    • Otherwhere
    • Vague, Regardless Eyes
    • Hallow'd
    • Timbrels
    • The Throng'd Resort of Whisperers
    • 'Mid
    • Hoodwink'd with Faery Fancy
    • Amort
    • Purposing
    • Moors
    • Buttress'd
    • Implores
    • Tedious
    • Perchance
    • In Sooth
    • Muffled
    • Fev'rous Citadel
    • Hyena Foemen
    • Execrations
    • Lineage
    • Beldame
    • Bland
    • Palsied
    • Hie Thee From This Place
    • Dwarfish
    • Gossip
    • Bier
    • Lattic'd
    • Water in a Witch's Sieve
    • Mickle
    • Urchin
    • Crone
    • Chimney Nook
    • Brook
    • Stratagem
    • Impious
    • Quoth
    • Ruffian
    • Foemen
    • Beard Them
    • Plaining
    • Betide Her Weal or Woe
    • Close
    • Peerless
    • While Legion'd Faeries Pac'd the Coverlet
    • Merlin and his Demon
    • Cates and Dainties
    • Tambour Frame
    • Catering
    • Aghast
    • Espial
    • Dusky Gallery
    • Covert
    • Amain
    • Agues
    • Falt'ring
    • Balustrade
    • Silver Taper
    • Safe Level Matting
    • Ring-dove Fray'd and Fled
    • Pallid
    • Voluble
    • Balmy
    • Casement
    • Diamonded with Panes of Quaint Device
    • Innumerable of Stains and Splendid Dyes
    • Deep-Damask'd
    • Heraldries
    • Emblazonings
    • Scutcheon
    • Gules
    • Boon
    • Taint
    • Anon
    • Vespers
    • Boddice
    • Pensive
    • Swoon
    • Poppied
    • Missal
    • Swart Paynims
    • Morphean Amulet
    • Clarion
    • Affray
    • Blanched Linen, Smooth, and Lavender'd
    • Quince
    • Jellies Soother than the Creamy Curd
    • Lucent Syrups, Tinct with Cinnamon
    • Manna and Dates
    • Silken Samarcand to Cedar'd Lebanon
    • Seraph
    • Eremite
    • Unnerved
    • Lustrous Salvers
    • Entoil'd in Woofed Phantasies
    • Tumultuous
    • La Belle Dame Sans Mercy
    • Tuneable
    • Complainings
    • Voluptuous Accents
    • Ethereal
    • Solution
    • Rave
    • Forsakest
    • Vassal
    • Vermeil
    • Pilgrim
    • Infidel
    • Haggard
    • Wassailers
    • Rhenish and the Sleepy Mead
    • Darkling
    • Arras
    • Besieging
    • Porter
    • Flaggon
    • Sagacious
    • Inmate
    • Shade
    • Aves
    • For Aye Unsought For
    • The poem takes place on the night before the festival of St. Agnes, a Catholic saint. Legend has it that young girls would dream of their future husbands if they performed certain rituals on that night.

  • Form, Meter, & Rhyme Scheme of “The Eve of St. Agnes”

    • Form

      "The Eve of St. Agnes" is modeled on the work of one of Keats's favorite writers: the English Renaissance poet Edmund Spenser. Spenser popularized the stanza form Keats is using here in his epic verse romance, The Faerie Queene. In fact, it's known as the Spenserian stanza: a nine-line stanza that uses eight lines of iambic pentameter and one line of iambic hexameter. (See the Meter section for a more in-depth explanation of what exactly those terms mean.) This poem uses 42 of these stanzas to tell its sumptuous, romantic story.

      Keats borrows from Spenser in more ways than one here. Like The Faerie Queene, "The Eve of St. Agnes" is a romance. That doesn't mean it's a love story (though it's certainly also that), but a tale of a legendary medieval world full of chivalrous knights, beautiful maidens, and heroic quests. The poem even says so itself: as the party guests arrive, the speaker looks back to his own childhood memories of reading the "triumphs gay / of old romance." This poem both fits into the romance genre and pays tribute to it through its relish of old-fashioned language and its images of gorgeous, dangerous old castles in enchanted storms.

    • Meter

      "The Eve of St. Agnes" uses Spenserian stanzas—a form popularized by the English Renaissance poet Edmund Spenser in his long verse romance The Faerie Queene.

      Spenserian stanzas are built of nine lines. The first eight lines use iambic pentameter—that is, lines that contain five iambs, metrical feet that go da-DUM, like this:

      The owl, | for all | his feath- | ers, was | a-cold;

      The ninth and final line of every stanza changes to iambic hexameter—lines of six iambic da-DUMs (also known as alexandrines). Take line 18:

      To think | how they | may ache | in i- | cy hoods | and mails.

      The pulsing rhythm of iambs keeps the poem moving along at a steady, hypnotic pace, like the dreamy night it describes. But those final, longer lines of hexameter, which call attention to each stanza's ending, also makes the stanzas feel like self-contained little scenes, individual episodes in a bigger drama.

      While the poem keeps to its Spenserian meter pretty steadily, it also alters it sometimes for effect (and perhaps because, even if you're a genius, it's tricky to maintain perfect iambs all the way through a 42-stanza poem). For instance, take a look at what happens when Porphyro has his big idea in lines 136-137:

      Sudden | a thought | came like | a full- | blown rose,
      Flushing | his brow, [...]

      Here, as Porphyro decides he's going to hide in Madeline's bedroom and make her St. Agnes dream come true, the lines start not with an iamb but with a trochee, a front-loaded foot that goes DUM-da. Those strong trochees sound a lot like a heart thumping harder with passion and excitement, as does the spondee (stressed-stressed) that ends line 136 ("blown rose").

    • Rhyme Scheme

      "The Eve of St. Agnes" uses Spenserian stanzas, which lay down both a steady iambic meter (see the Meter section for more on that) and a rhyme scheme that goes like this (with new rhyme sounds introduced in each stanza):

      ABABBCBCC

      While that general pattern holds steady throughout the poem, the rhyme words themselves are often pretty flexible. Even in the very first stanza, for example, there are a couple of slant rhymes: Keats rhymes "was" with "grass" and "breath" with "saith" (pronounced "sayth").

      In part, that's just to do with the enormous challenge of writing a long rhymed poem—especially in English. (It's a little easier in a language like Italian, in which a lot of words end with similar sounds—see Dante for just one famous example.) But this poem's frequent use of slant rhyme also creates a diffuse, dreamy atmosphere that suits its mood. Rather than snapping into perfect order every time, the rhymes here are often close to each other, but not exactly matched—sort of the same way that, just for instance, one's perfect dream-boyfriend might look a little less perfect in real life!

  • “The Eve of St. Agnes” Speaker

    • The speaker in this poem is a third-person storyteller, who omnisciently watches all the characters as they go about their secretive business. This makes the storyteller a little like Porphyro: both of them are, in their way, voyeurs.(And, by extension, they make the reader into a voyeur, too!)

      The reader gets only one indirect glimpse of the speaker as an actual person, when the speaker reflects on how the guests arriving at the castle are like something out of the stories read in childhood (see lines 37-41), when the speaker's "brain" was "new stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay / Of old romance." In other words, this is a speaker who adores tales of medieval knights, ladies, and enchantments. In this clever moment, the speaker seems to be saying that the scene is just like something out of an old romance—when, of course, the scene is in a romance, one the speaker is writing even now.

      All of this suggests that the storyteller is Keats himself. Keats was definitely a big fan of medieval romance (and would return to the genre in his later poem "La Belle Dame Sans Merci"). What's more, the poem borrows its form from one of Keats's very favorite poets, Edmund Spenser, author of one of the most famous of all verse romances, The Faerie Queene. (More on that in the Form, Meter, and Rhyme Scheme sections.)

      Whether or not you interpret the speaker as Keats, one thing is for sure: this speaker is deeply romantic (in the emotional sense) and deeply Romantic (in the poetic-movement sense), enraptured by the power of dreams, sensual pleasure, and sexual passion.

  • “The Eve of St. Agnes” Setting

    • "The Eve of St. Agnes" takes place in a classic fairy-tale castle, full of dangerous knights, fair ladies, and staring stone angels. It's both chilly (especially in its frigid chapel, which doesn't seem to get many visitors) and gorgeous, hung with rich tapestries and lit by flickering oil lamps.

      The poem is set in a distant past—a legendary Middle Ages—but even so, this castle already seems to have been around for centuries. Cobwebs dangle from its hallways, and its stone tombs mark a noble family's long legacy.

      This setting's mood of rich, ghostly antiquity fits right in with the poem's romantic view of the past—but also with its grim realism about death. Even the drunken party guests are haunted by death and danger, and the ominous storm blowing outside hints at more trouble to come. In this lush but perilous setting, Porphyro and Madeline's love feels all the more immediate and compelling: it's a present-tense passion in a past-tense world.

  • Literary and Historical Context of “The Eve of St. Agnes”

    • Literary Context

      John Keats (1795-1821) wrote "The Eve of St. Agnes" during a burst of concentrated poetic brilliance in 1819. Over the course of a few months, he wrote not only "Agnes," but also his great odes, a six-poem sequence that included the famous "Ode to a Nightingale," "Ode on a Grecian Urn," and "To Autumn." Only a little more than a year later, Keats would die of tuberculosis at the age of 25, believing he'd left no lasting mark on the literary world; he asked that his gravestone be inscribed only "Here Lies One Whose Name Was Writ in Water."

      Keats wrote during the heart of the English Romantic era, a poetic movement that arose in reaction to the witty, formal, measured, and sometimes cynical elegance of Enlightenment poets like Alexander Pope. The Romantic poets turned away from the rational clarity of early 18th-century verse to reach back to earthier poetic forms (like the ballad). They took a special interest in tales of mystery and enchantment; Coleridge's "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" is one classic example of Romantic storytelling.

      "The Eve of St. Agnes" reflects a very Romantic interest in old tales, and also draws on Keats's special fondness for the work of the Renaissance poet Edmund Spenser, whose legendary medieval settings and distinctive stanza form Keats borrows here. Keats would return to similar territory in his haunting ballad "La Belle Dame Sans Merci" (attentive readers might spot a possible moment of inspiration for that poem in this one, in lines 291-292).

      "The Eve of St. Agnes," in its sensual luxury and medieval quaintness, was a huge hit among the Victorians. Writers like Tennyson and artists like Millais considered it a great favorite—and even wrote tribute poems and painted fan art in response to it.

      Historical Context

      When Keats was writing, the Industrial Revolution was just kicking into gear. This earthshaking period changed England from a largely rural society to a mostly urban one—and, many Romantic poets thought, robbed the world of magic and of natural beauty. The Romantic longing for mystery and enchantment reflected in "The Eve of St. Agnes" was a rebellion in two directions, rejecting both earlier Enlightenment rationalism and a coming world of smoky mechanization.

      While Keats keenly felt this Romantic longing, he was a city boy from the start. A middle-class kid from the down-at-heel East End of London, he didn't have the luxury or the money to expect to devote himself to poetry full-time (as his wealthier contemporaries Byron and Shelley could). As a young man, he trained as a doctor—a much grimmer and less exalted profession in a time before anesthesia.

      He was thus the first to understand that, when he caught tuberculosis (often known at the time as "consumption"), he didn't have long to live. His close friend Charles Brown recorded an 1820 incident in which Keats coughed up blood, examined it by candlelight, and declared:

      I know the colour of that blood;—it is arterial blood;—I cannot be deceived by that colour;—that drop of blood is my death-warrant;—I must die.

      Keats was already suffering from the beginnings of tuberculosis when he wrote "The Eve of St. Agnes"—and mourning the death of his younger brother Tom from the same disease. It's no wonder, then, that death haunts the edges of the poem.

      Before the discovery of penicillin, tuberculosis was a scourge that felled millions; one calculation holds that, by the beginning of the 19th century, it had killed one in seven of the people who had ever lived. Even with good doctors and swift advances in medicine, no one really knew what to do with tuberculosis in Keats's time. Keats was only one of many who desperately left England for a warmer climate, hoping that milder temperatures might preserve them. This worked for Keats as well as it worked for anyone—which is to say, not at all. He died and was buried in Rome, far from the people who loved him.

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