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ODE TO PSYCHE

by John Keats

 

O Goddess! hear these tuneless numberswrung

By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear

And pardon that thy secrets should be sung

Even into thine own soft-conched ear:

Surely I dreamt to-dayor did I see

The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes?

I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly

Andon the suddenfainting with surprise

Saw two fair creaturescouched side by side

In deepest grassbeneath the whisp'ring roof

Of leaves and trembled blossomswhere there ran

A brookletscarce espied: -

'Mid hush'dcool-rooted flowersfragrant-eyed

Bluesilver-whiteand budded Tyrian

They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass;

Their arms embracedand their pinions too;

Their lips touch'd notbut had not bade adieu

As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber

And ready still past kisses to outnumber

At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:

The winged boy I knew;

But who wast thouO happyhappy dove?

His Psyche true! -

O latest born and loveliest vision far

Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!

Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star

Or Vesperamorous glow-worm of the sky;

Fairer than thesethough temple thou hast none

Nor altar heap'd with flowers;

Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan

Upon the midnight hours;

No voiceno luteno pipeno incense sweet

From chain-swung censer teeming;

No shrineno groveno oracleno heat

Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. -

O brightest! though too late for antique vows

Tootoo late for the fond believing lyre

When holy were the haunted forest boughs

Holy the airthe waterand the fire;

Yet even in these days so far retir'd

From happy pietiesthy lucent fans

Fluttering among the faint Olympians

I seeand singby my own eyes inspir'd.

So let me be thy choirand make a moan

Upon the midnight hours;

Thy voicethy lutethy pipethy incense sweet

From swinged censer teeming;

Thy shrinethy grovethy oraclethy heat

Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. -

YesI will be thy priestand build a fane

In some untrodden region of my mind

Where branched thoughtsnew grown with pleasant pain

Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:

Farfar around shall those dark-cluster'd trees

Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;

And there by zephyrsstreamsand birdsand 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 budsand bellsand stars without a name

With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign

Who breeding flowerswill never breed the same:

And there shall be for thee all soft delight

That shadowy thought can win

A bright torchand a casement ope at night

To let the warm Love in! - -

THE END