On Receiving A Crown Of Ivy From John Keats

A Crown of of ivy! I submit my head

To the young hand that gives it, --young, 'tis true,

But with a right, for 'tis a poet's too.

How pleasant the leaves feel! and how they spread

With their broad angles, like a nodding shed

Over both eyes! and how complete and new,

As on my hand I lean, to feel them strew

My sense with freshness, -- Fancy's rustling bed!

Tress-tossing girls, with smell of flowers and grapes

Come dancing by, and downward piping cheeks,

And up-thrown cymbals, and Silenus old

Lumpishly borne, and many trampling shapes,--

And lastly, with his bright eyes on her bent,

Bacchus, -- whose bride has of his hand fast hold.