The Complete Works: Poetry, Plays, Letters and Extensive Biographies. John Keats

      ‘What ’tis to die and live again before

      ‘Thy fated hour. That thou hadst power to do so

      ‘Is thy own safety; thou hast dated on

      ‘Thy doom.’ ‘High Prophetess,’ said I, ‘purge off,

      ‘Benign, if so it please thee, my mind’s film.’

      ‘None can usurp this height,’ return’d that shade,

      ‘But those to whom the miseries of the world

      ‘Are misery, and will not let them rest.

      ‘All else who find a haven in the world,

      ‘Where they may thoughtless sleep away their days,

      ‘If by a chance into this fane they come,

      ‘Rot on the pavement where thou rottedst half.’

      ‘Are there not thousands in the world,’ said I,

      Encourag’d by the sooth voice of the shade,

      ‘Who love their fellows even to the death;

      ‘Who feel the giant agony of the world;

      ‘And more, like slaves to poor humanity,

      ‘Labour for mortal good? I sure should see

      ‘Other men here; but I am here alone.’

      ‘Those whom thou spak’st of are no vision’ries,’

      Rejoin’d that voice; ‘they are no dreamers weak;

      ‘They seek no wonder but the human face,

      ‘No music but a happy noted voice;

      ‘They come not here, they have no thought to come;

      ‘And thou art here, for thou art less than they:

      ‘What benefit canst thou do, or all thy tribe,

      ‘To the great world? Thou art a dreaming thing,

      ‘A fever of thyself think of the Earth;

      ‘What bliss even in hope is there for thee?

      ‘What haven? every creature hath its home;

      ‘Every sole man hath days of joy and pain,

      ‘Whether his labours be sublime or low

      ‘The pain alone; the joy alone; distinct:

      ‘Only the dreamer venoms all his days,

      ‘Bearing more woe than all his sins deserve.

      ‘Therefore, that happiness be somewhat shar’d,

      ‘Such things as thou art are admitted oft

      ‘Into like gardens thou didst pass erewhile,

      ‘And suffer’d in these temples: for that cause

      ‘Thou standest safe beneath this statue’s knees.’

      ‘That I am favour’d for unworthiness,

      ‘By such propitious parley medicin’d

      ‘In sickness not ignoble, I rejoice,

      ‘Aye, and could weep for love of such award.’

      So answer’d I, continuing, ‘If it please,

      ‘Majestic shadow, tell me: sure not all

      ‘Those melodies sung into the world’s ear

      ‘Are useless: sure a poet is a sage;

      ‘A humanist, physician to all men.

      ‘That I am none I feel, as vultures feel

      ‘They are no birds when eagles are abroad.

      ‘What am I then? Thou spakest of my tribe:

      ‘What tribe?’ The tall shade veil’d in drooping white

      Then spake, so much more earnest, that the breath

      Moved the thin linen folds that drooping hung

      About a golden censer from the hand

      Pendent. ‘Art thou not of the dreamer tribe?

      ‘The poet and the dreamer are distinct,

      ‘Diverse, sheer opposite, antipodes.

      ‘The one pours out a balm upon the world,

      ‘The other vexes it.’ Then shouted I

      Spite of myself, and with a Pythia’s spleen,

      ‘Apollo! faded! O far flown Apollo!

      ‘Where is thy misty pestilence to creep

      ‘Into the dwellings, through the door crannies

      ‘Of all mock lyrists, large self worshipers,

      ‘And careless Hectorers in proud bad verse.

      ‘Though I breathe death with them it will be life

      ‘To see them sprawl before me into graves.

      ‘Majestic shadow, tell me where I am,

      ‘Whose altar this; for whom this incense curls;

      ‘What image this whose face I cannot see,

      ‘For the broad marble knees; and who thou art,

      ‘Of accent feminine so courteous?’