Give me a golden pen, and let me lean 
On heaped-up flowers, in regions clear, and far; 
Bring me a tablet whiter than a star, 
Or hand of hymning angel, when 'tis seen 
The silver strings of heavenly harp atween: 
And let there glide by many a pearly car 
Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar, 
And half-discovered wings, and glances keen. 

The while let music wander round my ears, 
And as it reaches each delicious ending, 
Let me write down a line of glorious tone, 
And full of many wonders of the spheres: 
For what a height my spirit is contending! 
'Tis not content so soon to be alone. 

by John Keats