The Eve of St. Agnes
by John Keats
 
I
  

     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.  
   
II
  

     His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;

 10

     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.  
   
III
  

     Northward he turneth through a little door,

  

     And scarce three steps, ere Music’s golden tongue

 20

     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.  
   
IV
  

     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,

 30

     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.  
   
V
  

     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

 40

     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.  
   
VI
  

     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;

 50

     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.  
   
VII
  

     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,

 60

     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.  
   
VIII
  

     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,

 70

     Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn,

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

     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;

 80
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such things have been.  
   
X
  

     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. 90
   
XI
  

     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!  
   
XII
  
     Get hence! get hence! there’s dwarfish Hildebrand; 100
     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.”  
   
XIII
  
     He follow’d through a lowly arched way,  
     Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume; 110
     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.”  
   
XIV
  
     “St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes’ Eve —  
     Yet men will murder upon holy days:  
     Thou must hold water in a witch’s sieve, 120
     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.”  
   
XV
  
     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, 130
     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.  
   
XVI
  
     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: 140
     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.”  
   
XVII
  
     “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; 150
     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.”  
   
XVIII
  
      “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, 160
     That Angela gives promise she will do  
 Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe.  
   
XIX
  
     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 unespied,  
      And win perhaps that night a peerless bride,  
     While legion’d fairies pac’d the coverlet,  
     And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed.  
     Never on such a night have lovers met, 170
Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.  
   
XX
  
     “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.” 180
   
XXI
  
     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.  
       
XXII
  
     Her falt’ring hand upon the balustrade, 190
     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.  
   
XXIII
  
     Out went the taper as she hurried in;  
     Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died: 200
     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.  
   
XXIV
  
     A casement high and triple-arch’d there was,  
     All garlanded with carven imag’ries  
     Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, 210
     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.  
   
XXV
  
     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, 220
     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.  
   
XXVI
  
      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: 230
     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.  
   
XXVII
  
     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; 240
     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.  
  pay
XXVIII
  
     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, 250
     And over the hush’d carpet, silent, stept,  
And ’tween the curtains peep’d, where, lo! — how fast she slept.  
   
XXIX
  
     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: — 260
The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.  
   
XXX
  
     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. 270
   
XXXI
  
     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.”  
   
XXXII
  
     Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 280
     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.  
   
XXXIII
  
     Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, —  
     Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest be, 290
     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.  
   
XXXIV
  
     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 300
     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.  
   
XXXV
  
     “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: 310
     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.”  
   
XXXVI
  
     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 320
     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.  
   
XXXVII
  
     ’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? 330
     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.”  
   
XXXVIII
  
     “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 340
     Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think’st well  
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.”  
   
XXXIX
  
     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, 350
For o’er the southern moors I have a home for thee.”  
   
XL
  
     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. 360
   
XLI
  
     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 groan.  
       
XLII
  
     And they are gone: ay, ages long ago 370
     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 — The title of the poem refers to the night before the feast day of St. Agnes, which is the 21st of January. St. Agnes was a Christian martyr of the early fourth century. The legends around her vary in their details, but the basic story is that she was a young (twelve or thirteen years old) Roman noblewoman condemned to be dragged naked through the streets and then cast into a brothel to be forced to serve as a prostitute. By miraculous intervention, her rape is prevented, but she is then executed by being beheaded or stabbed. Tradition stated that on St. Agnes’ Eve if a young virgin woman fasted, prayed, and then slept naked on her back without looking to either side, she would have a vision of her future husband’s face.
 
Beadsman’s — A beadsman is a man paid to say prayers. The word refers to rosary beads.
 
orat’ries — chapels
 
mails — suits of armor
 
romance — tales of chivalry and adventure, like those of King Arthur’s court or Roland (Orlando), a knight who served under Charlemagne
 
require — ask for (but stronger, somewhere between request and wish or beg)
 
timbrels — an instrument similar to a tambourine
 
Porphyro — The name derives from the Latin root meaning purple, and thus suggests royalty. (Purple has long been associated with royalty because it was the most expensive dye.)
 
wand — cane
 
bland — soft, smooth, melodious
 
Gossip — Unlike the modern definition, in this case the word refers to someone whom you take into your confidence.
 
“Well-a — well-a-day!” — an archaic expression of sorrow or worry, like Alas
 
Fays — From the French fée, meaning faerie. But don’t think of a Disney version like Tinkerbell. Faeries did things like steal infants from their cradles and cast spells on unsuspecting men. They are not evil but they do not follow human concepts of morality. Morgana Le Fay, the enemy of King Arthur and Merlin, is one notable example from literature (see below).
 
mickle — much, a lot of
 
start — react with surprise (root word of startled)
 
passing-bell — refers to the bells rung on the occasion of someone’s deathl; also called a death-knell
 
plaining — lamenting
 
closet — private chamber
 
Merlin — famously the magician who advised King Arthur in Camelot; Keats also refers to a Demon and a monstrous debt in this line, referring to how Merlin was imprisoned in a cave and killed by (depending on the particular telling of the story) Morgan Le Fay or the Lady of the Lake, known as Vivien or Nimue.
 
cates and dainties — beautifully prepared or rare food
 
amain — wholly
 
mission’d — commissioned, meaning giving a particular function or task
 
taper — candle
 
fray’d — attacked
 
voluble — constantly audible
 
damask’d — Keats has formed this verb from the noun damask, which refers to a woven fabric on which a pattern is visible on both sides.
 
scutcheon — usually escutcheon, meaning an emblem on which is displayed a coat-of-arms
 
blood — in the sense of family or bloodline
 
gules — the heraldric term for red
 
glory — halo
 
vespers — evening prayers
 
charm — magic spell
 
swart — swarthy
 
Paynims — pagans (specifically referring to Muslims in this case)
 
fast — firmly, or in this case deeply
 
Morphean — adjective form of Morpheus, the god of dreams
 
soother — Keats coins this word, presumably meaning more soothing
 
argosy — large merchant ships, specifically those from Venice and Ragusa (now Dubrovnik)
 
eremite — related to hermit, but with specifically religious connotations, so one who is religiously devoted
 
woofed — woven; the two directions of weaving are called the warp and the woof
 
affrayed — not quite the same word as afraid, as this word conveys the idea of being surprised or startled and having one’s rest disturbed
 
Solution — in the chemical sense of a solid being dissolved and evenly distributed within a liquid
 
Love’s — Cupid’s
 
flaw — storm
 
unpruned — in disarray, unkempt
 
wassailers — people who drink wassail (pronounced wah-suhl) which is spiced wine or ale traditionally drunk at winter holiday celebrations
 
Rhenish — wine from the Rhine region of Germany
 
arras — tapestry
 
Porter — gatekeeper; a servant whose job it is to keep watch over the gate (main door)
 
ave — as in “Ave Maria”(known in English as “Hail Mary”), this is a part of the rosary