And as I grew in years, still didst thou blend

With all my ardours: thou wast the deep glen;

Thou wast the mountain-top — the sage’s pen —

The poet’s harp — the voice of friends — the sun;

Thou wast the river — thou wast glory won;

Thou wast my clarion’s blast — thou wast my steed —

My goblet full of wine — my topmost deed: —

Thou wast the charm of women, lovely Moon!

— John Keats