A Draught Of Sunshine

by John Keats

　　Away with old Hock and madeira,

　　Too earthly ye are for my sport;

　　There's a beverage brighter and clearer.

　　Instead of a piriful rummer,

　　My wine overbrims a whole summer;

　　My bowl is the sky,

　　And I drink at my eye,

　　Till I feel in the brain

　　A Delphian pain -

　　Then follow, my Caius! then follow:

　　On the green of the hill

　　We will drink our fill

　　Of golden sunshine,

　　Till our brains intertwine

　　With the glory and grace of Apollo!

　　God of the Meridian,

　　And of the East and West,

　　To thee my soul is flown,

　　And my body is earthward press'd. -

　　It is an awful mission,

　　A terrible division;

　　And leaves a gulph austere

　　To be fill'd with worldly fear.

　　Aye, when the soul is fled

　　To high above our head,

　　Affrighted do we gaze

　　After its airy maze,

　　As doth a mother wild,

　　When her young infant child

　　Is in an eagle's claws -

　　And is not this the cause

　　Of madness? - God of Song,

　　Thou bearest me along

　　Through sights I scarce can bear:

　　O let me, let me share

　　With the hot lyre and thee,

　　The staid Philosophy.

　　Temper my lonely hours,

　　And let me see thy bowers

　　More unalarm'd!