JOHN KEATS

for a beaker full of the warm South ! Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

And purple-stained mouth ;

That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim :

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies ; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

And leaden-eyed despairs ; Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away ! away ! for I will fly to thec,

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : Already with thee ! tender is the night,

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Clustered around by all her starry Fays

But here there is no light,

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

1 cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,

�� �