Ode to Psyche John Keats. 1795–1821 626. Ode to Psyche 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-conchèd ear: Surely I dreamd to-day, or did I see 5 The wingèd Psyche with awakend eyes? I wanderd in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, Saw two fair creatures, couchèd side by side In deepest grass, beneath the whispring roof 10 Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran A brooklet, scarce espied: Mid hushd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed, Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass; 15 Their arms embracèd, and their pinions too; Their lips touchd not, but had not bade adieu, As if disjoinèd by soft-handed slumber, And ready still past kisses to outnumber At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: 20 The wingèd 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! 25 Fairer than Phoebes sapphire-regiond star, Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, Nor altar heapd with flowers; Nor Virgin-choir to make delicious moan 30 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-mouthd prophet dreaming. 35 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 retired 40 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; 45 Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet From swingèd censer teeming: Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Of pale-mouthd prophet dreaming. Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane 50 In some untrodden region of my mind, Where branchèd thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: Far, far around shall those dark-clusterd trees Fledge the wild-ridgèd mountains steep by steep; 55 And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulld to sleep; And in the midst of this wide quietness A rosy sanctuary will I dress With the wreathd trellis of a working brain, 60 With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, With all the gardener Fancy eer could feign, Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same; And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, 65 A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in!
Posted on: Wed, 20 Nov 2013 08:11:27 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015