

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 inind self-overawed, 



Fancy, high-commissioned ;—send her I 


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 ! 

