JOHN KEATS

She dwells with Beauty Beauty that must die;

And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu ; and aching Pleasure nigh,

Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips : Ay, in the very temple of Delight

VeiI'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,

Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine ;

His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

��629. Fragment of an Ode to Maia

(Written on. May-Day, 1818)

TV/T OTHER of Hermes! and still youthful Maia!

• • • May I sing to thee

As thou wast hymned on the shores of Baiae?

Or may I woo thee In earlier Sicilian ? or thy smiles Seek as they once were sought, in Grecian isles, By bards who died content on pleasant sward,

Leaving great verse unto a little clan ? O give me their old vigour ! and unheard Save of the quiet primrose, and the span

Of heaven, and few ears, Rounded by thee, my song should die away

Content as theirs, Rich in the simple worship of a day.

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