noon
All is mine ; all is my own ! Toss the purple fountain high ! The breast of man is a vat of stone ; I am alive , I , only I ! Thou hast beheld a throated fountain spout Full in the air , and in the downward spray A hovering Iris span the marble tank , Which as the wind came , ever rose and sank Violet and red ; so my continual play Makes beauty for the Gods with many a prank Of human excellence , while they , Weary of all the noon , in shadows sweet Supine and heavy-eyed rest in the boundless heat : Let the world 's fountain play ! Beauty is pleasant in the eyes of Jove ; Betwixt the wavering shadows where he lies He marks the dancing column with his eyes Celestial , and amid his inmost grove Upgathers all his limbs , serenely blest , Lulled by the mellow noise of the great world 's unrest . One heart beats in all nature , differing But in the work it works ; its doubts and clamours Are but the waste and brunt of instruments Wherewith a work is done ; or as the hammers On forge Cyclopean plied beneath the rents Of lowest Etna , conquering into shape The hard and scattered ore : Choose thou narcotics , and the dizzy grape Outworking passion , lest with horrid crash Thy life go from thee in a night of pain . So tutoring thy vision , shall the flash Of dove white-breasted be to thee no more Than a white stone heavy upon the plain .