Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/780

 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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