John Keats (1795–1821)

One morn before me were three figures seen,

        With bowed necks, and joined hands, side-faced;

And one behind the other stepp’d serene,

        In placid sandals, and in white robes graced:

They pass’d, like figures on a marble urn,

        When shifted round to see the other side;

                They came again; as when the urn once more

Is shifted round, the first seen shades return;

        And they were strange to me, as may betide

                With vases, to one deep in Phidian lore.

How is it, shadows! that I knew ye not?

        How came ye muffled in so hush a masque?

Was it a silent deep-disguised plot

        To steal away, and leave without a task

My idle days? Ripe was the drowsy hour;

        The blissful cloud of summer-indolence

                Benumb’d my eyes; my pulse grew less and less;

Pain had no sting, and pleasure’s wreath no flower.

        O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense

                Unhaunted quite of all but — nothingness?

A third time pass’d they by, and, passing, turn’d

        Each one the face a moment whiles to me;

Then faded, and to follow them I burn’d

        And ached for wings, because I knew the three:

The first was a fair maid, and Love her name;

        The second was Ambition, pale of cheek,

                And ever watchful with fatigued eye;

The last, whom I love more, the more of blame

        Is heap’d upon her, maiden most unmeek, —

                I knew to be my demon Poesy.

They faded, and, forsooth! I wanted wings:

        O folly! What is Love! and where is it?

And for that poor Ambition — it springs

        From a man’s little heart’s short fever-fit;

For Poesy! — no, — she has not a joy, —

        At least for me, — so sweet as drowsy noons,

                And evenings steep’d in honied indolence;

O, for an age so shelter’d from annoy,

        That I may never know how change the moons,

                Or hear the voice of busy common-sense!

A third time came they by; — alas! wherefore?

        My sleep had been embroider’d with dim dreams;

My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o’er

        With flowers, and stirring shades, and baffled beams:

The morn was clouded, but no shower fell,

        Though in her lids hung the sweet tears of May;

                The open casement press’d a new-leaved vine,

        Let in the budding warmth and throstle’s lay;

O shadows! ’twas a time to bid farewell!

                Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine.

So, ye three ghosts, adieu! Ye cannot raise

        My head cool-bedded in the flowery grass;

For I would not be dieted with praise,

        A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce!

Fade softly from my eyes, and be once more

        In masque-like figures on the dreamy urn;

                Farewell! I yet have visions for the night,

And for the day faint visions there is store;

                Vanish, ye phantoms, from my idle spright,

        Into the clouds, and never more return!