How astonished he would have been sixty years later if he had taken up Mr. Sidney Colvin’s Life of Keats, in the “English Men of Letters Series,” and read in the concluding chapter the deliberate and
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remarkable10 judgment11 that “by power, as well as by temperament12 and aim, he was the most Shakespearean spirit that has lived since Shakespeare”!
In truth, from the beginning the poetry of Keats has been visited too much by thunder-storms of praise. It was the indiscriminate enthusiasm of his friends that drew out the equally indiscriminate ridicule13 of his enemies. It was the premature14 salutation offered to him as a supreme15 master of the most difficult of all arts that gave point and sting to the criticism of evident defects in his work. The Examiner hailed him, before his first volume had been printed, as one who was destined16 to revive the early vigour17 of English poetry. Blackwood’s Magazine retorted by quoting his feeblest lines and calling him “Johnny Keats.” The suspicion of log-rolling led to its usual result in a volley of stone-throwing.
Happily, the ultimate fame and influence of a true poet are not determined18 by the partizan conflicts which are waged about his name. He may suffer some personal loss by having to breathe, at times, a perturbed19 atmosphere of mingled20 flattery
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and abuse instead of the still air of delightful21 studies. He may be robbed of some days of a life already far too short, by the pestilent noise and confusion arising from that scramble22 for notoriety which is often unduly23 honoured with the name of “literary activity.” And there are some men whose days of real inspiration are so few, and whose poetic24 gift is so slender, that this loss proves fatal to them. They are completely carried away and absorbed by the speculations25 and strifes of the market-place. They spend their time in the intrigues27 of rival poetic enterprises, and learn to regard current quotations28 in the trade journals as the only standard of value. Minor29 poets at the outset, they are tempted30 to risk their little all on the stock exchange of literature, and, losing their last title to the noun, retire to bankruptcy31 on the adjective.
But Keats did not belong to this frail32 and foolish race. His lot was cast in a world of petty conflict and ungenerous rivalry33, but he was not of that world. It hurt him a little, but it did not ruin him. His spiritual capital was too large, and he regarded it as too sacred to be imperilled by vain speculations.
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He had in Chaucer and Spenser, Shakespeare and Chapman, Milton and Petrarch, older and wiser friends than Leigh Hunt. For him
“The blue
Bared its eternal bosom34, and the dew
Of summer nights collected still to make
The morning precious: beauty was awake!”
He perceived, by that light which comes only to high-souled and noble-hearted poets,
“The great end
Of poesy, that it should be a friend
To soothe35 the cares and lift the thoughts of man.”
To that end he gave the best that he had to give, freely, generously, joyously36 pouring himself into the ministry38 of his art. He did not dream for a moment that the gift was perfect. Flattery could not blind him to the limitations and defects of his early work. He was his own best and clearest critic. But he knew that so far as it went his poetic inspiration was true. He had faithfully followed the light of a pure and elevating joy in the opulent, manifold beauty of nature and in the eloquent40 significance of old-world legends, and he believed that
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it had already led him to a place among the poets whose verse would bring delight, in far-off years, to the sons and daughters of mankind. He believed also that if he kept alive his faith in the truth of beauty and the beauty of truth it would lead him on yet further, into a nobler life and closer to those immortal41 bards42 whose
“Souls still speak
To mortals of their little week;
Of their sorrows and delights;
Of their passions and their spites;
Of their glory and their shame;
What doth strengthen and what maim43.”
He expressed this faith very clearly in the early and uneven44 poem called “Sleep and Poetry,” in a passage which begins
“Oh, for ten years, that I may overwhelm
Myself in poesy! so I may do the deed
That my own soul has to itself decreed.”
And then, ere four years had followed that brave wish, his voice fell silent under a wasting agony of pain and love, and the daisies were growing upon his Roman grave.
The pathos46 of his frustrated47 hope, his early death,
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has sometimes blinded men a little, it seems to me, to the real significance of his work and the true quality of his influence in poetry. He has been lamented48 in the golden verse of Shelley’s “Adonaïs,” and in the prose of a hundred writers who have shared Shelley’s error without partaking of his genius, as the loveliest innocent ever martyred by the cruelty of hostile critics. But, in fact, the vituperations of Gifford and his crew were no more responsible for the death of Keats, than the stings of insects are for the death of a man who has perished of hunger on the coast of Labrador. They added to his sufferings, no doubt, but they did not take away his life. Keats had far too much virtue50 in the old Roman sense—far too much courage, to be killed by a criticism. He died of consumption, as he clearly and sadly knew that he was fated to do when he first saw the drop of arterial blood upon his pillow.
Nor is it just, although it may seem generous, to estimate his fame chiefly by the anticipation51 of what he might have accomplished52 if he had lived longer; to praise him for his promise at the expense
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of his performance; and to rest his claim to a place among the English poets upon an uncertain prophecy of rivalry with Shakespeare. I find a far sounder note in Lowell’s manly9 essay, when he says: “No doubt there is something tropical and of strange overgrowth in his sudden maturity53, but it was maturity nevertheless.” I hear the accent of a wiser and saner55 criticism in the sonnet56 of one of our American poets:
“Touch not with dark regret his perfect fame,
Sighing, ‘Had he but lived he had done so’;
Or, ‘Were his heart not eaten out with woe57
John Keats had won a prouder, mightier58 name!’
Take him for what he was and did—nor blame
Blind fate for all he suffered. Thou shouldst know
Souls such as his escape no mortal blow—
No agony of joy, or sorrow, or shame.”
“Take him for what he was and did”—that should be the key-note of our thought of Keats as a poet. The exquisite59 harmony of his actual work with his actual character; the truth of what he wrote to what his young heart saw and felt and enjoyed; the simplicity60 of his very exuberance61 of
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ornament, and the naturalness of his artifice62; the sincerity63 of his love of beauty and the beauty of his sincerity—these are the qualities which give an individual and lasting64 charm to his poetry, and make his gift to the world complete in itself and very precious, although,—or perhaps we should even say because,—it was unfinished.
Youth itself is imperfect: it is impulsive65, visionary, and unrestrained; full of tremulous delight in its sensations, but not yet thoroughly66 awake to the deeper meanings of the world; avid67 of novelty and mystery, but not yet fully39 capable of hearing or interpreting the still, small voice of divine significance which breathes from the simple and familiar elements of life.
Yet youth has its own completeness as a season of man’s existence. It is justified68 and indispensable. Alfred de Musset’s
“We old men born yesterday”
are simply monstrous69. The poetry which expresses and represents youth, the poetry of sensation and sentiment, has its own place in the literature of the
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world. This is the order to which the poetry of Keats belongs.
He is not a feminine poet, as Mr. Coventry Patmore calls him, any more than Theocritus or Tennyson is feminine; for the quality of extreme sensitiveness to outward beauty is not a mark of femininity. It is found in men more often and more clearly than in women. But it is always most keen and joyous37 and overmastering in the morning of the soul.
Keats is not a virile70 poet, like Dante or Shakespeare or Milton; that he would have become one if he had lived is a happy and loving guess. He is certainly not a member of the senile school of poetry, which celebrates the impotent and morbid71 passions of decay, with a café chantant for its temple, and the smoke of cigarettes for incense72, and cups of absinthe for its libations, and for its goddess not the immortal Venus rising from the sea, but the weary, painted, and decrepit73 Venus sinking into the gutter74.
He is in the highest and best sense of the word a juvenile75 poet—“mature,” as Lowell says, but
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mature, as genius always is, within the boundaries and in the spirit of his own season of life. The very sadness of his lovely odes, “To a Nightingale,” “On a Grecian Urn,” “To Autumn,” “To Psyche,” is the pleasant melancholy76 of the springtime of the heart. “The Eve of St. Agnes,” pure and passionate77, surprizing us by its fine excess of colour and melody, sensuous78 in every line, yet free from the slightest taint79 of sensuality, is unforgettable and unsurpassable as the dream of first love. The poetry of Keats, small in bulk and slight in body as it seems at first sight to be, endures, and will endure, in English literature, because it is the embodiment of the spirit of immortal youth.
Here, I think, we touch its secret as an influence upon other poets. For that it has been an influence,—in the older sense of the word, which carries with it a reference to the guiding and controlling force supposed to flow from the stars to the earth,—is beyond all doubt. The History of English Literature, with which Taine amused us some fifty years ago, nowhere displays its narrowness of vision more egregiously80 than in its failure to take account of Gray,
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Collins, and Keats as fashioners of English poetry. It does not mention Gray and Collins at all; the name of Keats occurs only once, with a reference to “sickly or overflowing81 imagination,” but to Byron nearly fifty pages are devoted82. The American critic, Stedman, showed a far broader and more intelligent understanding of the subject when he said that “Wordsworth begot83 the mind, and Keats the body, of the idyllic84 Victorian School.”
We can trace the influence of Keats not merely in the conscious or unconscious imitations of his manner, like those which are so evident in the early poems of Tennyson and Procter, in Hood’s Plea of the Midsummer Fairies and Lycus the Centaur86, in Rossetti’s Ballads87 and Sonnets88, and William Morris’s Earthly Paradise, but also in the youthful spirit of delight in the retelling of old tales of mythology89 and chivalry90; in the quickened sense of pleasure in the luxuriance and abundance of natural beauty; in the freedom of overflowing cadences91 transmuting92 ancient forms of verse into new and more flexible measures; in the large liberty of imaginative diction, making all nature sympathize
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with the joy and sorrow of man,—in brief, in many of the finest marks of a renascence, a renewed youth, which characterize the poetry of the early Victorian era.
I do not mean to say that Keats alone, or chiefly, was responsible for this renascence. He never set up to lead a movement or to found a school. His genius is not to be compared to that of a commanding artist like Giotto or Leonardo or Michelangelo, but rather to that of a painter like Botticelli, whose personal and expressive93 charm makes itself felt in the work of many painters, who learned secrets of grace and beauty from him, though they were not his professed94 disciples95 or followers96.
Take for example Matthew Arnold. He called himself, and no doubt rightly, a Wordsworthian. But it was not from Wordsworth that he caught the strange and searching melody of “The Forsaken97 Merman,” or learned to embroider98 the laments99 for “Thyrsis” and “The Scholar-Gypsy” with such opulence100 of varied101 bloom as makes death itself seem lovely. It was from John Keats. Or read the description of the tapestry102 on the castle walls in “Tristram
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and Iseult.” How perfectly103 that repeats the spirit of Keats’s descriptions in “The Eve of St. Agnes”! It is the poetry of the picturesque104.
Indeed, we shall fail to do justice to the influence of Keats unless we recognize also that it has produced direct and distinct effects in the art of painting. The English pre-Raphaelites owed much to his inspiration. Holman Hunt found two of his earliest subjects for pictures in “The Eve of St. Agnes” and “The Pot of Basil.” Millais painted “Lorenzo and Isabella,” and Rossetti “La Belle105 Dame106 sans Merci.” There is an evident sympathy between the art of these painters, which insisted that every detail in a picture is precious and should be painted with truthful107 care for its beauty, and the poetry of Keats, which is filled, and even overfilled, with minute and loving touches of exquisite elaboration.
But it must be remembered that in poetry, as well as in painting, the spirit of picturesqueness108 has its dangers. The details may be multiplied until the original design is lost. The harmony and lucidity109 of a poem may be destroyed by innumerable digressions and descriptions. In some of his
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poems—in “Endymion” and in “Lamia”—Keats fell very deep into this fault, and no one knew it better than himself. But when he was at his best he had the power of adding a hundred delicate details to his central vision, and making every touch heighten and enhance the general effect. How wonderful in its unity110 is the “Ode on a Grecian Urn”! How completely magical are the opening lines of “Hyperion”:
“Deep in the shady sadness of a vale
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery111 Noon, and eve’s one star,
Sat gray-hair’d Saturn112, quiet as a stone,
Still as the silence round about his lair113;
Forest on forest hung about his head
Like cloud on cloud.”
How large and splendid is the imagery of the sonnet “On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer”! And who that has any sense of poetry does not recognize the voice of a young master in the two superb lines of the last poem that Keats wrote?—the sonnet in which he speaks of the bright star
“watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature’s patient, sleepless114 Eremite,
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The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores.”
The poets of America have not been slow to recognize the charm and power of Keats. Holmes and Longfellow and Lowell paid homage115 to him in their verse. Lanier inscribed116 to his memory a poem called “Clover.” Gilder117 wrote two sonnets which celebrate his “perfect fame.” Robert Underwood Johnson has a lovely lyric118 on “The Name Writ49 in Water.”
But I find an even deeper and larger tribute to his influence in the features of resemblance to his manner and spirit which flash out here and there, unexpectedly and unconsciously, in the poetry of our New World. Emerson was so unlike Keats in his intellectual constitution as to make all contact between them appear improbable, if not impossible. Yet no one can read Emerson’s “May-Day,” and Keats’ exquisitely119 truthful and imaginative lines on “Fancy,” one after the other, without feeling that the two poems are very near of kin6. Lowell’s “Legend of Brittany” has caught, not only the measure, but also the tone and the diction of “Isabella.”
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The famous introduction to “The Vision of Sir Launfal,” with its often quoted line,
“What is so rare as a day in June?”
finds a parallel in the opening verses of “Sleep and Poetry”—
“What is more gentle than a wind in summer?”
Lowell’s “Endymion,” which he calls “a mystical comment on Titian’s ‘Sacred and Profane120 Love,’” is full of echoes from Keats, like this:
“My day began not till the twilight121 fell
And lo! in ether from heaven’s sweetest well
The new moon swam, divinely isolate122
In maiden123 silence, she that makes my fate
Haply not knowing it, or only so
As I the secrets of my sheep may know.”
In Lanier’s rich and melodious124 “Hymns of the Marshes” there are innumerable touches in the style of Keats; for example, his apostrophe to the
“Reverend marsh125, low-couched along the sea,
Old chemist, wrapped in alchemy,
Distilling126 silence,——”
or his praise of the
“Beautiful glooms, soft dusks in the noon-day fire,
Wildwood privacies, closets of lone1 desire,
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Chamber127 from chamber parted with wavering arras of leaves.”
One of the finest pieces of elegiac verse that have yet been produced in America, George E. Woodberry’s poem called “The North Shore Watch,” has many passages that recall the young poet who wrote
“A thing of beauty is a joy forever.”
Indeed, we hear the very spirit of Endymion speaking in Woodberry’s lines:
“Beauty abides128, nor suffers mortal change,
Eternal refuge of the orphaned129 mind.”
Father John B. Tabb, who had the exquisite art of the Greek epigram at his command, in one of his delicately finished little poems, imagined Sappho listening to the “Ode to a Nightingale”:
“Methinks when first the nightingale
Was mated to thy deathless song,
That Sappho with emotion pale
Amid the Olympian throng130,
Again, as in the Lesbian grove131,
Stood listening with lips apart,
To hear in thy melodious love
The pantings of her heart.”
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Yes; the memory and influence of Keats endure, and will endure, because his poetry expresses something in the heart that will not die so long as there are young men and maidens132 to see and feel the beauty of the world and the thrill of love. His poetry is complete, it is true, it is justified, because it is the fitting utterance133 of one of those periods of mental life which Keats himself has called “the human seasons.”
But its completeness and its truth depend upon its relation, in itself and in the poet’s mind, to the larger world of poetry, the fuller life, the rounded year of man. Nor was this forward look, this anticipation of something better and greater yet to come, lacking in the youth of Keats. It flashes out, again and again, from his letters, those outpourings of his heart and mind, so full of boyish exuberance and manly vigour, so rich in revelations of what this marvellous, beautiful, sensitive, courageous134 little creature really was,—a great soul in the body of a lad. It shows itself clearly and calmly in the remarkable preface in which he criticizes his own “Endymion,” calling it “a feverish135 attempt, rather than a deed
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accomplished.” “It is just,” he writes, “that this youngster should die away: a sad thought for me, if I had not some hope that while it is dwindling136 I may be plotting, and fitting myself for verses fit to live.” The same fine hope of a sane54 and manly youth is expressed in his early verses entitled “Sleep and Poetry.” He has been speaking of the first joys of his fancy, in the realm of Flora137 and old Pan: the merry games and dances with white-handed nymphs: the ardent138 pursuit of love, and the satisfied repose139 in the bosom of a leafy world. Then his imagination goes on to something better.
“And can I ever bid these joys farewell?
Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life,
Where I may find the agonies, the strife26
Of human hearts: for lo! I see afar,
O’ersailing the blue cragginess, a car
And steeds with streamy manes—the charioteer
Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear:
And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly
Along a huge cloud’s ridge140: and now with sprightly141
Wheel downward come they into fresher skies,
Tipt round with silver from the sun’s bright eyes.
... And there soon appear
Shapes of delight, of mystery and fear,
Passing along before a dusky space
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Made by some mighty142 oaks: as they would chase
Some ever-fleeting music, on they sweep.
Lo! how they murmur143, laugh, and smile, and weep:
Some with upholden hand and mouth severe;
Some with their faces muffled144 to the ear
Between their arms; some, clear in youthful bloom,
Go glad and smilingly across the gloom;
Some looking back, and some with upward gaze;
Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways
Flit onward—now a lovely wreath of girls
Dancing their sleek145 hair into tangled146 curls;
And now broad wings. Most awfully147 intent
The driver of those steeds is forward bent148,
And seems to listen: O that I might know
All that he writes with such a hurrying glow.
The visions all are fled—the car is fled
Into the light of heaven, and in their stead
A sense of real things comes doubly strong,
And, like a muddy stream, would bear along
My soul to nothingness: but I will strive
Against all doubtings, and will keep alive
The thought of that same chariot, and the strange
Journey it went.”
How young-hearted is this vision, how full of thronging149 fancies and half-apprehended mystic meanings! Yet how unmistakably it has the long, high, forward look toward manhood, without which youth itself is not rounded and complete!
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After all, that look, that brave expectation, is vital in our picture of Keats. It is one of the reasons why we love him. It is one of the things which make his slender volume of poetry so companionable, even as an ardent, dreamy man is doubly a good comrade when we feel in him the hope of a strong man. We cannot truly understand the wonderful performance of Keats without considering his promise; we cannot appreciate what he did without remembering that it was only part of what he hoped to do.
He was not one of those who believe that the ultimate aim of poetry is sensuous loveliness, and that there is no higher law above the law of “art for art’s sake.” The poets of arrested development, the artificers of mere85 melody and form, who say that art must always play and never teach, the musicians who are content to remain forever
“The idle singers of an empty day,”
are not his true followers.
He held that “beauty is truth.” But he held also another article that has been too often left out
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in the repetition of his poetic creed45: he held “truth, beauty,” and he hoped one day to give a clear, full utterance to that higher, holier vision. Perhaps he has, but not to mortal ears.
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1
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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2
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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3
sagely
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| adv. 贤能地，贤明地 | |
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ambrosial
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| adj.美味的 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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6
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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9
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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10
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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12
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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13
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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15
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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17
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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21
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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25
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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tempted
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bankruptcy
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32
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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39
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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40
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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41
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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42
bards
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| n.诗人( bard的名词复数 ) | |
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43
maim
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| v.使残废，使不能工作，使伤残 | |
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44
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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45
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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46
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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47
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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48
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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50
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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51
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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52
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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53
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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54
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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55
saner
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| adj.心智健全的( sane的比较级 )；神志正常的；明智的；稳健的 | |
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56
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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57
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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58
mightier
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| adj. 强有力的，强大的，巨大的 adv. 很，极其 | |
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59
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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60
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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61
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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62
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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63
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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64
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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65
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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66
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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67
avid
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| adj.热心的；贪婪的；渴望的；劲头十足的 | |
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68
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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69
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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70
virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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71
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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72
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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73
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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74
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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75
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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76
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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77
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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78
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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79
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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80
egregiously
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| adv.过份地，卓越地 | |
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81
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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82
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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83
begot
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去式 )；产生，引起 | |
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84
idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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85
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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86
centaur
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| n.人首马身的怪物 | |
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87
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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88
sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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89
mythology
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| n.神话，神话学，神话集 | |
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90
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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91
cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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92
transmuting
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的现在分词 ) | |
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93
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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94
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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95
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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96
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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97
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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98
embroider
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| v.刺绣于(布)上；给…添枝加叶，润饰 | |
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99
laments
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| n.悲恸，哀歌，挽歌( lament的名词复数 )v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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100
opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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101
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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102
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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103
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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104
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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105
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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106
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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107
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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108
picturesqueness
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109
lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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110
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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111
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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112
Saturn
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| n.农神，土星 | |
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113
lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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114
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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115
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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116
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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117
gilder
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| 镀金工人 | |
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118
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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119
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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120
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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121
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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122
isolate
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| vt.使孤立，隔离 | |
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123
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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124
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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125
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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126
distilling
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| n.蒸馏（作用）v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )( distilled的过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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127
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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128
abides
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| 容忍( abide的第三人称单数 )； 等候； 逗留； 停留 | |
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129
orphaned
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| [计][修]孤立 | |
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130
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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131
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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132
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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133
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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134
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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135
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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136
dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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137
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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138
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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139
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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140
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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141
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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142
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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143
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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144
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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145
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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146
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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147
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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148
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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149
thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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