Poetry: A Draught Of Sunshine by John Keats

Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port, 
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! 

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