A Prophecy: To George Keats In America
'Tis
the
witching
hour
of
night,
Orbed
is
the
moon
and
bright,
And
the
stars
they
glisten,
glisten,
Seeming
with
bright
eyes
to
listen
--
For
what
listen
they?
For
a
song
and
for
a
charm,
See
they
glisten
in
alarm,
And
the
moon
is
waxing
warm
To
hear
what
I
shall
say.
Moon!
keep
wide
thy
golden
ears
--
Hearken,
stars!
and
hearken,
spheres!
--
Hearken,
thou
eternal
sky!
I
sing
an
infant's
lullaby,
A
pretty
lullaby.
Listen,
listen,
listen,
listen,
Glisten,
glisten,
glisten,
glisten,
And
hear
my
lullaby!
Though
the
rushes
that
will
make
Its
cradle
still
are
in
the
lake
--
Though
the
linen
that
will
be
Its
swathe,
is
on
the
cotton
tree
--
Though
the
woollen
that
will
keep
It
warm,
is
on
the
silly
sheep
--
Listen,
starlight,
listen,
listen,
Glisten,
glisten,
glisten,
glisten,
And
hear
my
lullaby!
Child,
I
see
thee!
Child,
I've
found
thee
Midst
of
the
quiet
all
around
thee!
And
thy
mother
sweet
is
nigh
thee!
But
a
Poet
evermore!
See,
see,
the
lyre,
the
lyre,
In
a
flame
of
fire,
Upon
the
little
cradle's
top
Flaring,
flaring,
flaring,
Past
the
eyesight's
bearing,
Awake
it
from
its
sleep,
And
see
if
it
can
keep
Its
eyes
upon
the
blaze
--
Amaze,
amaze!
It
stares,
it
stares,
it
stares,
It
dares
what
no
one
dares!
It
lifts
its
little
hand
into
the
flame
Unharm'd,
and
on
the
strings
Paddles
a
little
tune,
and
sings,
With
dumb
endeavour
sweetly
--
Bard
art
thou
completely!
Little
child
O'
th'
western
wild,
Bard
art
thou
completely!
Sweetly
with
dumb
endeavour,
A
Poet
now
or
never,
Little
child
O'
th'
western
wild,
A
Poet
now
or
never!
