But where the incessant din Of iron hands, and roar of brazen throats, Join their unmingling notes; While the long summer day is pouring in, Till day is done, and darkness doth begin; Dream I—or in the corner where I lie, On winter nights, just covered from the sky; Such is my fate, and barren as it seem, Yet, thou blind soulless scorner! yet, I dream. And, yet, I dream— Dream what, were man more just, I might have been! How strong, how fair, how kindly and serene, Glowing of heart, and glorious of mien, The conscious crown to Nature’s blissful scene; In just and equal brotherhood to glean, With all mankind, exhaustless pleasure keen: Such is my dream. And, yet, I dream— I, the despised of fortune, lift mine eye, Bright with the lustre of integrity, In unappealing wretchedness on high, And the last rage of destiny defy; Resolved, alone to live—alone to die, Nor swell the tide of human misery. And, yet, I dream— Dream of a sleep where dreams no more shall come; My last, my first, my only welcome home! Rest, unbeheld since life’s beginning stage, Sole remnant of my glorious heritage Unalienable, I shall find thee yet, And in thy soft embrace, the past forget! Thus do I dream. * * * * * BY JOHN KEATS. MILTON AND WORDSWORTH. From “Life and Literary Remains of Keats,” by R. M. Milnes.