KEATS

To sing, as thou didst in full throated ease, Sweeter than thine oft-envied nightingale, And with thy singing waken hill and dale Until the many harpstrings of the trees Murmured in strange and old antiphonies; To wander at thy will into the vale Where sleeps Endymion, and tell the tale Of Dian's nymphs or Pan's dear dryades:

Was it, in sooth, too great a price to pay— The heart-ache and the passion and the tears With which God mixed for thee life's cup of gold? Against the sadness of thy lot I hold The joy of him who sees and feels and hears Earth's splendour, fulness, music, night and day.