JOHN KEATS

No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet

From chain-swung censer teeming; No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat

Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.

brightest ! though too late for antique vows, Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,

When holy were the haunted forest boughs,

Holy the air, the water, and the fire ; Yet even in these days so far retired

From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,

Fluttering among the faint Olympians,

1 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 steep ; And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,

The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep; And in the midst of this wide quietness A rosy sanctuary will I 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; 73*

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