FANCYBy John KeatsEVER let the Fancy roam,Pleasure never is at home:At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;Then let winged Fancy wanderThrough the thought still spread beyond her:Open wide the mind’s cage-door,She’ll dart forth, and cloudward soar.

O sweet Fancy!

let her loose;Summer’s joys are spoilt by use,And the enjoying of the SpringFades as does its blossoming;Autumn’s red-lipp’d fruitage too,Blushing through the mist and dew,Cloys with tasting: What do then?

Sit thee by the ingle, whenThe sear faggot blazes bright,Spirit of a winter’s night;When the soundless earth is muffled,And the caked snow is shuffledFrom the ploughboy’s heavy shoon;When the Night doth meet the NoonIn a dark conspiracyTo banish Even from her sky.

Sit thee there, and send abroad,With a mind self-overaw’d,Fancy, high-commission’d: —send her!

She has vassals to attend her:She will bring, in spite of frost,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 upLike three fit wines in a cup,And thou shalt quaff it: —thou shalt hearDistant harvest-carols clear;Rustle of the reaped corn;Sweet birds antheming the morn:And, in the same moment—hark!

’Tis the early April lark,Or the rooks, with busy caw,Foraging for sticks and straw.

Thou shalt, at one glance, beholdThe daisy and the marigold;White-plum’d lilies, and the firstHedge-grown primrose that hath burst;Shaded hyacinth, alwaySapphire queen of the mid-May;And every leaf, and every flowerPearled with the self-same shower.

Thou shalt see the field-mouse peepMeagre from its celled sleep;And the snake all winter-thinCast on sunny bank its skin;Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt seeHatching in the hawthorn-tree,When the hen-bird’s wing doth restQuiet on her mossy nest;Then the hurry and alarmWhen the bee-hive casts its swarm;Acorns ripe down-pattering,While the autumn breezes sing.

Oh, sweet Fancy!

let her loose;Every thing is spoilt by use:Where’s the cheek that doth not fade,Too much gaz’d at?

Where’s the maidWhose lip mature is ever new?

Where’s the eye, however blue,Doth not weary?

Where’s the faceOne would meet in every place?

Where’s the voice, however soft,One would hear so very oft?

At a touch sweet Pleasure meltethLike to bubbles when rain pelteth.

Let, then, winged Fancy findThee a mistress to thy mind:Dulcet-eyed as Ceres’ daughter,Ere the God of Torment taught herHow to frown and how to chide;With a waist and with a sideWhite as Hebe’s, when her zoneSlipt its golden clasp, and downFell her kirtle to her feet,While she held the goblet sweet,And Jove grew languid.

—Break the meshOf the Fancy’s silken leash;Quickly break her prison-stringAnd such joys as these she’ll bring.

—Let the winged Fancy roam,Pleasure never is at home.

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