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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 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; Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet From swingèd censer teeming: Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming. -John Keats (1795-1821), Ode to Psyche |