Ode To Beauty

Who gave thee, O Beauty,     The keys of this breast,--     Too credulous lover     Of blest and unblest?     Say, when in lapsed ages     Thee knew I of old?     Or what was the service     For which I was sold?     When first my eyes saw thee,     I found me thy thrall,     By magical drawings,     Sweet tyrant of all!     I drank at thy fountain     False waters of thirst;     Thou intimate stranger,     Thou latest and first!     Thy dangerous glances     Make women of men;     New-born, we are melting     Into nature again.     Lavish, lavish promiser,     Nigh persuading gods to err!     Guest of million painted forms,     Which in turn thy glory warms!     The frailest leaf, the mossy bark,     The acorn's cup, the raindrop's arc,     The swinging spider's silver line,     The ruby of the drop of wine,     The shining pebble of the pond,     Thou inscribest with a bond,     In thy momentary play,     Would bankrupt nature to repay.     Ah, what avails it     To hide or to shun     Whom the Infinite One     Hath granted his throne?     The heaven high over     Is the deep's lover;     The sun and sea,     Informed by thee,     Before me run     And draw me on,     Yet fly me still,     As Fate refuses     To me the heart Fate for me chooses.     Is it that my opulent soul     Was mingled from the generous whole;     Sea-valleys and the deep of skies     Furnished several supplies;     And the sands whereof I'm made     Draw me to them, self-betrayed?     I turn the proud portfolio     Which holds the grand designs     Of Salvator, of Guercino,     And Piranesi's lines.     I hear the lofty paeans     Of the masters of the shell,     Who heard the starry music     And recount the numbers well;     Olympian bards who sung     Divine Ideas below,     Which always find us young     And always keep us so.     Oft, in streets or humblest places,     I detect far-wandered graces,     Which, from Eden wide astray,     In lowly homes have lost their way.     Thee gliding through the sea of form,     Like the lightning through the storm,     Somewhat not to be possessed,     Somewhat not to be caressed,     No feet so fleet could ever find,     No perfect form could ever bind.     Thou eternal fugitive,     Hovering over all that live,     Quick and skilful to inspire     Sweet, extravagant desire,     Starry space and lily-bell     Filling with thy roseate smell,     Wilt not give the lips to taste     Of the nectar which thou hast.     All that's good and great with thee     Works in close conspiracy;     Thou hast bribed the dark and lonely     To report thy features only,     And the cold and purple morning     Itself with thoughts of thee adorning;     The leafy dell, the city mart,     Equal trophies of thine art;     E'en the flowing azure air     Thou hast touched for my despair;     And, if I languish into dreams,     Again I meet the ardent beams.     Queen of things! I dare not die     In Being's deeps past ear and eye;     Lest there I find the same deceiver     And be the sport of Fate forever.     Dread Power, but dear! if God thou be,     Unmake me quite, or give thyself to me!