JOHN KEATS
Yet even in these days so far retired
From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,
Fluttering among the faint Olympians, I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
Upon the midnight hours; Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
From swinged censer teeming. Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
In some untrodden region of my mind, Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees
Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by bteep, And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,
The mobs-lain Dryads shall be lulPd to sleep; And in the midst of this wide quietness A rosy sanctuary will 1 dress With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain,
With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,
Who, breeding flowers, will never breed the same, And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in!
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