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John Keats - Ode To Psyche
Work rating: Medium

O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung 
     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-day, or did I see
     The winged Psyche with awaken`d eyes?
   I wander`d in a forest thoughtlessly,
     And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
   Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side
     In deepest grass, beneath the whisp`ring roof
     Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran
        A brooklet, scarce espied:

   Mid hush`d, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,
       Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,
   They lay calm-breathing, on the bedded grass;
       Their arms embraced, and their pinions too;
       Their lips touch`d not, but 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 thou, O happy, happy dove?
           His Psyche true!

   O latest born and loveliest vision far
       Of all Olympus` faded hierarchy!
   Fairer than Ph{oe}be`s sapphire-region`d star,
       Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;
   Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
           Nor altar heap`d with flowers;
   Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan
           Upon the midnight hours;
   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.

   O 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 retir`d
       From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,
       Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
   I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspir`d.
   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:
   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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