The Poet

The Poet

John Keats (1795-1821)

At morn, at noon, at eve, and middle night,
He passes forth into the charned air,
With talisman to call up spirits rare
From plant, cave, rock, and fountain. To his sight
The husk of natural objects opens quite
To the core, and every secret essence there
Reveals the elements of good and fair,
Making him see, where Learning hath no light.
Sometimes above the gross and palpable things
Of this diurnnal sphere, his spirit flies
On auful wing; and with its destined skies
Holds premature and mystic communings;
Till such unearthly intercourses shed
A visible halo round his mortal head.