268 
KEATS 
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 caked snow is shuffled 
From the ploughboy’s heavy shoon: 
When the Night doth meet the Moon 
In a dark conspiracy 
To banish Even from her sky. 
Sit thee here, and send abroad, 
With a mind self-overawed, 
Fancy, high-commissioned ;—send her ! 
She has vassals to attend her ; 
She will bring, in spite of post, 
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 heaped 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 reaped corn ; 
Sweet birds antheming the morn ; 
And, in the same moment, hark I 
