A rosy sanctuary will I dress

With the wreathed trellis of a working brain,

With buds, and stars without a name,

With all the gardner 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 bright torch, and a casement ope at night,

To let the warm Love in!

    

      Ode to Psyche , John Keats