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In Praise of Apollo
by
John Keats
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Hence burgundy, claret, and port Away with old hock and madeira! Too earthly ye are for my sport; There's a beverage brighter and clearer! Instead of a pitiful rummer My wine overbrims a whole summer; My bowl is the sky And I drink at my eye Till I feel in the brain A Delphian pain -- Then follow, my Caius, then follow! On the green of the hill We will drink our fill Of golden sunshine Till our brains intertwine With the glory and grace of Apollo!
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