The work of Fancy, or some happy tone
Of meditation, slipping in between

The beauty coming and the beauty gone.

-If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
Let us break off all commerce with the Muse:
With Thought and Love companions of our way-
Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,-

The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews
Of inspiration on the humblest lay.

William Wordsworth

318*

THE REALM OF FANCY

Ever let the Fancy roam;

Pleasure never is at home:

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,

Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;

Then let wingéd 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 cakéd 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 heapéd 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 reapéd 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-plumed lilies, and the first
Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;
Shaded hyacinth, alway

Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
And every leaf, and every flower
Pearléd with the self-same shower.

Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
Meagre from its celléd 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;
Everything is spoilt by use:

Where's the cheek that doth not fade,
Too much gazed 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 wingéd Fancy find
Thee a mistress to thy mind:
Dulcet-eyed 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 wingéd Fancy roam,

Pleasure never is at home.

John Keats

319*

WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think
What Man has made of Man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths;

And 'tis my faith that every flower

Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopp'd and play'd,

Their thoughts I cannot measure,

But the least motion which they made

It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan
To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament

What Man has made of Man?

William Wordsworth

320* RUTH: OR THE INFLUENCES OF NATURE

When Ruth was left half desolate,
Her father took another mate;
And Ruth, not seven years old,
A slighted child, at her own will
Went wandering over dale and hill,
In thoughtless freedom, bold.

And she had made a pipe of straw,
And music from that pipe could draw
Like sounds of winds and floods;
Had built a bower upon the green,

As if she from her birth had been
An infant of the woods.

Beneath her father's roof, alone

She seem'd to live; her thoughts her own;

Herself her own delight:

Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay;

And passing thus the live-long day,

She grew to woman's height.