Fancy

By John Keats
Ever let the Fancy roam, Shaded hyacinth, alway
Pleasure never is at home: Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, And every leaf, and every flower
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; Pearled with the self-same shower.
Then let winged Fancy wander Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
Through the thought still spread beyond her: Meagre from its celled sleep;
Open wide the mind’s cage-door, And the snake all winter-thin
She’ll dart forth, and cloudward soar. Cast on sunny bank its skin;
O sweet Fancy! let her loose; Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see
Summer’s joys are spoilt by use, Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,
And the enjoying of the Spring When the hen-bird’s wing doth rest
Fades as does its blossoming; Quiet on her mossy nest;
Autumn’s red-lipp’d fruitage too, Then the hurry and alarm
Blushing through the mist and dew, When the bee-hive casts its swarm;
Cloys with tasting: What do then? Acorns ripe down-pattering,
Sit thee by the ingle, when While the autumn breezes sing.
The sear faggot blazes bright,
Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose;
Spirit of a winter’s night;
Every thing is spoilt by use:
When the soundless earth is muffled,
Where’s the cheek that doth not fade,
And the caked snow is shuffled
Too much gaz’d at? Where’s the maid
From the ploughboy’s heavy shoon;
Whose lip mature is ever new?
When the Night doth meet the Noon
Where’s the eye, however blue,
In a dark conspiracy
Doth not weary? Where’s the face
To banish Even from her sky.
One would meet in every place?
Sit thee there, and send abroad,
Where’s the voice, however soft,
With a mind self-overaw’d,
One would hear so very oft?
Fancy, high-commission’d:—send her!
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth
She has vassals to attend her:
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
She will bring, in spite of frost,
Let, then, winged Fancy find
Beauties that the earth hath lost;
Thee a mistress to thy mind:
She will bring thee, all together,
Dulcet-ey’d as Ceres’ daughter,
All delights of summer weather;
Ere the God of Torment taught her
All the buds and bells of May,
How to frown and how to chide;
From dewy sward or thorny spray;
With a waist and with a side
All the heaped Autumn’s wealth,
White as Hebe’s, when her zone
With a still, mysterious stealth:
Slipt its golden clasp, and down
She will mix these pleasures up
Fell her kirtle to her feet,
Like three fit wines in a cup,
While she held the goblet sweet
And thou shalt quaff it:—thou shalt hear
And Jove grew languid.—Break the mesh
Distant harvest-carols clear;
Of the Fancy’s silken leash;
Rustle of the reaped corn;
Quickly break her prison-string
Sweet birds antheming the morn:
And such joys as these she’ll bring.—
And, in the same moment, hark!
Let the winged Fancy roam,
‘Tis the early April lark,
Pleasure never is at home.
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;