Eddy Jackson MBE | Media Bot Maven

Here is a contemporary poem reinterpreting Keats’ Eve of Saint Agnes:

The Eve of St. Agnes 2023

St. Agnes’ Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was! The snow, for all its whiteness, was a-cold; The cars skid sliding through the icy slush, And silent was the city in its hold: Numb were the homeless fingers, while they sold Their wares, and while their frozen breath, Like puffs of smoke from cigarettes so old, Seem’d fading in the air, without a death, Past the bright billboards, while they curse their fate.

Their fate they curse, these weary, wretched souls; Then take their bags, and shuffle from the streets, And back returneth, hungry, to their holes, Along the alleyways by slow retreats: The trash, on each side, seem to heap, Enclosing them in dark, infernal piles: Rats, roaches, scavenging in grimy deeps, They passeth by; and their weak spirit riles To think how they may starve in filthy tiles.

Southward they turneth through a broken door, And scarce three steps, ere Music’s thumping bass Assaulted their ears this night and evermore; But no—already had their lifeline pass’d; The joys of all their youth were waste and cast: Theirs was harsh living on St. Agnes’ Eve: Another way they went, and soon among Rough blankets lay they for their souls’ reprieve, And all night kept awake, for sinners’ sake to grieve.

That ancient homeless heard the prelude loud; And so it chanc’d, for many a window wide, From hurry to and fro. Soon, up above, The flashing, blaring lights 'gan to collide: The penthouse suites, ready with their pride, Were glowing to receive a thousand guests: The crystal chandeliers, ever sparkling-eyed, Star’d, where upon their heads the ceiling rests, With hair blown back, and jewels put cross-wise on their chests.

At length burst in the golden revelry, With gown, tiara, and all rich array, Numerous as shadows haunting eerily The mind, new stuff’d, in age, with sorrows grey 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 an old voice whisper from the air.

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. 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 bodice; 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.

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.

Stol’n to this paradise, and so entranced, Porphyro gazed 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.

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 clarinet, Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:— The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender’d, While he from forth 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.

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.”

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.

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 ceased—she panted quick—and suddenly Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone: Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.

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.

“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.”

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.

'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.”

"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,—sav’d 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.