O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers1, wrung
　By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
　Even unto thine own soft-conched ear2:
Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see3
　The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes?
I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly4,
　And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side
　In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof 5
　Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran
　　　A brooklet, scarce espied6:
'Mid hush'd cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,
　Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian7,
They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass;
　Their arms embraced, and their pinions8 too;
　Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu,
As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,
And ready still past kisses to outnumber
　At tender eye-dawn of aurorean9 love:
　　?The winged boy10 I knew;
But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove11?
　　　His Psyche true!

O latest born and loveliest vision far
　Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!
Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star12,
　Or Vesper13, amorous glow-worm of the sky;
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
　　Nor altar heap'd with flowers;
Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan
　　Upon the midnight hours;
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet
　From chain-swung censer14 teeming;
No shrine, no globe, no oracle, no heat
　Of pale-mouthed prophet15 dreaming.

O brightest! though too late for antique vows,
　Too, too late for the fond believing lyte16,
When holy were the haunted forest boughs,
　Holy the air, the water, and the fire;
Yet even in these days so far retir'd
　From happy pieties, thy lucent fans17,
　Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
　　Upon the midnight hours;
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
　From swinged censer teeming;
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
　Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane18
　In some untrodden region of my mind,
Where branched thoughts19, new grown with pleasant pain,
　Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:
Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees
　Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;
And there by zephyrs20, streams, and birds, and bees,
　The moss-lain Dryads21 shall be lull'd to sleep;
And in the midst of this wide quietness
A rosy sanctuary will I dress
With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain,
　With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign22,
　Who breeding glowers, will never breed the same:
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
　That shadowy thought23 can win,
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night24,