Will you be my priest, and build a fane in some untrodden region of my mind? There where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, shall murmur in the wind. Far, far around shall those dark-cluster’d thoughts fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep. And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds and bees, and by the moss-lain Dryads I shall be lull’d to sleep; and in the midst of this wide quietness will you dress my mind with the wreath’d trellis of wonders from a working brain? Will you weave around with the buds and bells and stars of mystery all without a name and using all that the gardener Fancy e’er could feign, who breeding flowers, will never breed the same. And there shall be for thee all soft delight that shadowy thought can win, a mirror to reflect the light from your bright torch, a window ope to let the warm love in!
With thanks to John Keats 1795 - 1812
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