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I.     Stand still, true poet that you are!     I know you; let me try and draw you.     Some night youll fail us: when afar     You rise, remember one man saw you,     Knew you, and named a star! II.     My star, Gods glow-worm! Why extend     That loving hand of his which leads you     Yet locks you safe from end to end     Of this dark world, unless he needs you,     Just saves your light to spend? III.     His clenched hand shall unclose at last,     I know, and let out all the beauty:     My poet holds the future fast,     Accepts the coming ages duty,     Their present for this past. IV.     That day, the earths feast-masters brow     Shall clear, to God the chalice raising;     Others give best at first, but thou     Forever setst our table praising,     Keepst the good wine till now! V.     Meantime, Ill draw you as you stand,     With few or none to watch and wonder:     Ill say, a fisher, on the sand     By Tyre the old, with ocean-plunder,     A netful, brought to land. VI.     Who has not heard how Tyrian shells     Enclosed the blue, that dye of dyes     Whereof one drop worked miracles,     And coloured like Astartes1 eyes     Raw silk the merchant sells? VII.     And each bystander of them all     Could criticize, and quote tradition     How depths of blue sublimed some pall     To get which, pricked a kings ambition     Worth sceptre, crown and ball. VIII.     Yet theres the dye, in that rough mesh,     The sea has only just oerwhispered!     Live whelks, each lips beard dripping fresh,     As if they still the waters lisp heard     Through foam the rock-weeds thresh. IX.     Enough to furnish Solomon     Such hangings for his cedar-house,     That, when gold-robed he took the throne     In that abyss of blue, the Spouse     Might swear his presence shone X.     Most like the centre-spike of gold     Which burns deep in the blue-bells womb,     What time, with ardours manifold,     The bee goes singing to her groom,     Drunken and overbold. XI.     Mere conchs! not fit for warp or woof!     Till cunning come to pound and squeeze     And clarify, refine to proof     The liquor filtered by degrees,     While the world stands aloof. XII.     And theres the extract, flasked and fine,     And priced and saleable at last!     And Hobbs, Nobbs, Stokes and Nokes combine     To paint the future from the past,     Put blue into their line. XIII.     Hobbs hints blue, Straight he turtle eats:     Nobbs prints blue, claret crowns his cup:     Nokes outdares Stokes in azure feats,     Both gorge. Who fished the murex2 up?     What porridge had John Keats?