memes

Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave

A paradise for a sect; the savage too

From forth the loftiest fashion of his sleep

Guesses at heaven pity these have not

Trac’d upon vellum or wild Indian leaf

The shadows of melodious utterance.

But bare of laurel they live, dream and die;

For Poesy alone can tell her dreams,

With the fine spell of words alone can save

Imagination from the sable charm

And dumb enchantment. Who alive can say

“Thou art no poet; mayst not tell thy dreams”?

Since every man whose soul is not a clod

Hath visions, and would speak, if he had lov’d

And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.

Whether the dream now purposed to rehearse

Be poet’s or fanatic’s will be known

When this warm scribe my hand is in the grave.

The Fall of Hyperion: A Dream by John Keats