On Receiving A Crown Of Ivy From John Keats
A Crown of of ivy! I submit my head
To the young hand that gives it, --young, 'tis true,
But with a right, for 'tis a poet's too.
How pleasant the leaves feel! and how they spread
With their broad angles, like a nodding shed
Over both eyes! and how complete and new,
As on my hand I lean, to feel them strew
My sense with freshness, -- Fancy's rustling bed!
Tress-tossing girls, with smell of flowers and grapes
Come dancing by, and downward piping cheeks,
And up-thrown cymbals, and Silenus old
Lumpishly borne, and many trampling shapes,--
And lastly, with his bright eyes on her bent,
Bacchus, -- whose bride has of his hand fast hold.
