On Hearing the Bag
Of late two dainties were before me plac’d
Sweet, holy, pure, sacred and innocent,
From the ninth sphere to me benignly sent
That Gods might know my own particular taste:
First the soft Bag-pipe mourn’d with zealous haste,
The Stranger next with head on bosom bent
Sigh’d; rueful again the piteous Bag-pipe went,
Again the Stranger sighings fresh did waste.
O Bag-pipe thou didst steal my heart away—
O Stranger thou didst re-assert thy sway—
Again thou Stranger gav’st me fresh alarm—
Alas! I could not choose. Ah! my poor heart
Mum chance art thou with both oblig’d to part.
Other works by John Keats...
