The opening of ‘The Fall of Hyperion: A Dream’, which Keats began writing at Shanklin in the summer of 1819:
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
Traced 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 chain
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.