O Goddess ! hear these tuneless numbers , wrungBy sweet enforcement and remembrance dear , And pardon that thy secrets should be sungEven into thine own soft - conched ear : Surely I dreamt to - day , or did I seeThe winged Psyche with awaken ' d eyes ? I wander ' d in a forest thoughtlessly , And , on the sudden , fainting with surprise , Saw two fair creatures , couched side by sideIn deepest grass , beneath the whisp ' ring roofOf leaves and trembled blossoms , where there ranA brooklet , scarce espied : Mid hush ' d , cool - rooted flowers , fragrant - eyed , Blue , silver - white , and budded Tyrian , They lay calm - breathing , on the bedded grass ; Their arms embraced , and their pinions too ; Their lips touch ' d not , but had not bade adieu , As if disjoined by soft - handed slumber , And ready still past kisses to outnumberAt tender eye - dawn of aurorean love : The winged boy I knew ; But who wast thou , O happy , happy dove ? His Psyche true ! O latest born and loveliest vision farOf all Olympus ' faded hierarchy ! Fairer than Ph { oe } be ' s sapphire - region ' d star , Or Vesper , 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 moanUpon the midnight hours ; No voice , no lute , no pipe , no incense sweetFrom chain - swung censer teeming ; No shrine , no grove , no oracle , no heatOf pale - mouth ' d prophet dreaming . O brightest ! though too late for antique vows , Too , too late for the fond believing lyre , When holy were the haunted forest boughs , Holy the air , the water , and the fire ; Yet even in these days so far retir ' dFrom happy pieties , thy lucent fans , Fluttering among the faint Olympians , I see , and sing , by my own eyes inspir ' d . So let me be thy choir , and make a moanUpon the midnight hours ; Thy voice , thy lute , thy pipe , thy incense sweetFrom swinged censer teeming ; Thy shrine , thy grove , thy oracle , thy heatOf pale - mouth ' d prophet dreaming . Yes , I will be thy priest , and build a faneIn some untrodden region of my mind , Where branched thoughts , new grown with pleasant pain , Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind : Far , far around shall those dark - cluster ' d treesFledge the wild - ridged mountains steep by steep ; And there by zephyrs , streams , and birds , and bees , The moss - lain Dryads shall be lull ' d to sleep ; And in the midst of this wide quietnessA rosy sanctuary will I dressWith 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 feign , Who breeding flowers , will never breed the same : And there shall be for thee all soft delightThat shadowy thought can win , A bright torch , and a casement ope at night , To let the warm Love in ! -- John Keats