Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/297

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O, the sweetness of the pain!

Give me those lips again!

Enough! Enough! it is enough for me

To dream of thee!

AN EARLIER VERSION OF "HYPERION."

HYPERION, A VISION

have their dreams, wherewith they weave A paradise for a sect; the savage, too, From forth the loftiest fashion of his sleep Guesses at heaven; pity these have not Traced upon vellum or wild Indian leaf The shadows of melodious utterance, But bare of laurel they live, dream, and die; For Poesy alone can tell her dreams,— With the fine spell of words alone can save Imagination from the sable chain And dumb enchantment. Who alive can say, "Thou art no Poet—may'st not tell thy dreams?" Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue. Whether the dream now purposed to rehearse Be poet's or fanatic's will be known When this warm scribe, my hand, is in the grave.

Methought I stood where trees of every clime, Palm, myrtle, oak, and sycamore, and beech, 