Ode to Psyche, p.2

p. 2

Fairer than these though Temple thou hast none,
Nor Altar heap’d with flowers;
Nor Virgin Choir to make melodious moan
Upon the midnight hours;
Nor voice, nor lute, nor pipe, nor incense sweet
From chain-swung Censer teeming,
Nor shrine, nor grove, nor oracle, nor heat
Of pale-mouth’d Prophet dreaming.

O Bloomiest! Though too late for antique vows
Too, too late for the fond believing Lyre,
When holy were the haunted forest-boughs,¹
Holy the air, the water, and the Fire:
Yet even in these days so far retir’d
From happy Pieties, thy lucent fans,
Fluttering above ^among the faint Olympians,
I see, and sing by my clear ^own eyes inspired.
O let me be thy Choir and make a moan
Upon the midnight hours;
Thy Voice, thy lute, thy Pipe, thy insence [sic] sweet
Thy ^From swinged Censer teeming;
Thy Shrine, thy Grove, thy oracle, thy heat
Of Pale mouth’d Prophet dreaming!

1. “Thy Altar heap’d with flowers,” crossed out and written in the left margin by Keats