Those Tuesdays where the only thing to do is to Keats.



Was it a vision, or a waking dream? My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
Fled is that music: -Do I wake or sleep?  One minute past

'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been

         Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,

Tasting of Flora and the country green,

         Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!

         But being too happy in thine happiness,—  Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

                With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

                        And purple-stained mouth; Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

         What thou among the leaves hast never known,

 The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

         Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,

But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet

  Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

                Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?