……

When holy were the haunted forest boughs,

Holy the air, the water and the fire;

Yet even in these days so far retired

From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,

Fluttering among the faint Olympians,

I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.

So let me be thy choir and make a moan

Upon the midnight hours— 

Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet

From swinged censer teeming;

Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat

Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.

……

——John Keats 《Ode to Psyche》