fall. T is as lonely as an autumn night, when you hear only the falling 

 of the leaves to disturb the hush of darkness. Keats was stableboy, 

 but deserted the stable for the blue sky and the Out- 

 of-Doors, which was where he belonged, for all who 

 are familiar with our poets must know that 

 Keats is one of our chief pastoral poets. He 

 loves and sees nature, and, without stammer- 

 ing, tells what he saw. Theories of beauty 

 may limp, but beauty's self is as sure of foot 

 as daylight, and as fleet of foot as morning. 

 Those who frequent Out-of- Doors may have 

 beauty for ashes an exchange worth mak- 

 ing. And Keats had made this exchange. 

 He had often been 



' 7w some melodious plot 

 Of beechen green, and shadows numberless," 



and had in " sun-burnt mirth " longed 



"For a beaker full of the warm South, 

 With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 

 And purple- stained mouth," 



and heard the nightingale a-singing 



'Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 

 Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home, 

 She stood in tears amid the alien corn and wept. 



Thy plaintive anthem fades 

 Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 

 Up the hill- side; and now 'tis buried deep 



In the next valley glades" 



So Keats sings, and so, under the trees, 

 with heart set to leaf -fall, I read. 



And here, while the light sifts down drowsily 

 through the gorgeous leaves, as if loath to leave 

 their glad glow, and leaves fall in leisurely fash- 

 ion, as doing it for their own delight, while birds 

 come, and with head leaning pertly on one side, 

 twitter "Who are you and what are you doing here ?" 

 The leaves rustle. The wind takes occasional gusts and then sits down 

 for rest, as I do. The clouds are bonnie, bonnie. When did I learn to 



172 



