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John Keats - Fancy
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Ever let the Fancy roam, 
   Pleasure never is at home:
   At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,
   Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;
   Then let winged Fancy wander
   Through the thought still spread beyond her:
   Open wide the mind`s cage-door,
   She`ll dart forth, and cloudward soar.
   O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
   Summer`s joys are spoilt by use,
   And the enjoying of the Spring
   Fades as does its blossoming;
   Autumn`s red-lipp`d fruitage too,
   Blushing through the mist and dew,
   Cloys with tasting: What do then?
   Sit thee by the ingle, when
   The sear faggot blazes bright,
   Spirit of a winter`s night;
   When the soundless earth is muffled,
   And the caked snow is shuffled
   From the ploughboy`s heavy shoon;
   When the Night doth meet the Noon
   In a dark conspiracy
   To banish Even from her sky.
   Sit thee there, and send abroad,
   With a mind self-overaw`d,
   Fancy, high-commission`d:—send her!
   She has vassals to attend her:
   She will bring, in spite of frost,
   Beauties that the earth hath lost;
   She will bring thee, all together,
   All delights of summer weather;
   All the buds and bells of May,
   From dewy sward or thorny spray;
   All the heaped Autumn`s wealth,
   With a still, mysterious stealth:
   She will mix these pleasures up
   Like three fit wines in a cup,
   And thou shalt quaff it:—thou shalt hear
   Distant harvest-carols clear;
   Rustle of the reaped corn;
   Sweet birds antheming the morn:
   And, in the same moment, hark!
   `Tis the early April lark,
   Or the rooks, with busy caw,
   Foraging for sticks and straw.
   Thou shalt, at one glance, behold
   The daisy and the marigold;
   White-plum`d lillies, and the first
   Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;
   Shaded hyacinth, alway
   Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
   And every leaf, and every flower
   Pearled with the self-same shower.
   Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
   Meagre from its celled sleep;
   And the snake all winter-thin
   Cast on sunny bank its skin;
   Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see
     Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,
   When the hen-bird`s wing doth rest
   Quiet on her mossy nest;
   Then the hurry and alarm
   When the bee-hive casts its swarm;
   Acorns ripe down-pattering,
   While the autumn breezes sing.

       Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose;
   Every thing is spoilt by use:
   Where`s the cheek that doth not fade,
   Too much gaz`d at? Where`s the maid
   Whose lip mature is ever new?
   Where`s the eye, however blue,
   Doth not weary? Where`s the face
   One would meet in every place?
   Where`s the voice, however soft,
   One would hear so very oft?
   At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth
   Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
   Let, then, winged Fancy find
   Thee a mistress to thy mind:
   Dulcet-ey`d as Ceres` daughter,
   Ere the God of Torment taught her
   How to frown and how to chide;
   With a waist and with a side
   White as Hebe`s, when her zone
   Slipt its golden clasp, and down
   Fell her kirtle to her feet,
   While she held the goblet sweet
   And Jove grew languid.—Break the mesh
   Of the Fancy`s silken leash;
   Quickly break her prison-string
   And such joys as these she`ll bring.—
   Let the winged Fancy roam,
   Pleasure never is at home.
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