A dramatic reading by Jason Louv of the 1819 poem "The Fall of Hyperion—A Dream" by John Keats, set to music by Jason. Not uncommon for the 19th century, it is awash in occult and Hermetic symbolism.  Show Links Magick.Me Magick.Me's Fast-Growing YouTube Channel: Like and Subscribe!!!   The full text of the poem follows: "The Fall of Hyperion—A Dream" John Keats CANTO I 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 Trac'd 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 charm And dumb enchantment. Who alive can say, 'Thou art no Poet may'st not tell thy dreams?' Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved And been well nurtured in his mother tongue. Whether the dream now purpos'd to rehearse Be poet's or fanatic's will be known When this warm scribe my hand is in the grave. Methought I stood where trees of every clime, Palm, myrtle, oak, and sycamore, and beech, With plantain, and spice blossoms, made a screen; In neighbourhood of fountains, by the noise Soft showering in my ears, and, by the touch Of scent, not far from roses. Turning round I saw an arbour with a drooping roof Of trellis vines, and bells, and larger blooms, Like floral censers swinging light in air; Before its wreathed doorway, on a mound Of moss, was spread a feast of summer fruits, Which, nearer seen, seem'd refuse of a meal By angel tasted or our Mother Eve; For empty shells were scattered on the grass, And grape stalks but half bare, and remnants more, Sweet smelling, whose pure kinds I could not know. Still was more plenty than the fabled horn Thrice emptied could pour forth, at banqueting For Proserpine return'd to her own fields, Where the white heifers low. And appetite More yearning than on earth I ever felt Growing within, I ate deliciously; And, after not long, thirsted, for thereby Stood a cool vessel of transparent juice Sipp'd by the wander'd bee, the which I took, And, pledging all the mortals of the world, And all the dead whose names are in our lips, Drank. That full draught is parent of my theme. No Asian poppy nor elixir fine Of the soon fading jealous Caliphat, No poison gender'd in close monkish cell To thin the scarlet conclave of old men, Could so have rapt unwilling life away. Among the fragrant husks and berries crush'd, Upon the grass I struggled hard against The domineering potion; but in vain: The cloudy swoon came on, and down I sunk Like a Silenus on an antique vase. How long I slumber'd 'tis a chance to guess. When sense of life return'd, I started up As if with wings; but the fair trees were gone, The mossy mound and arbour were no more: I look'd around upon the carved sides Of an old sanctuary with roof august, Builded so high, it seem'd that filmed clouds Might spread beneath, as o'er the stars of heaven; So old the place was, I remember'd none The like upon the earth: what I had seen Of grey cathedrals, buttress'd walls, rent towers, The superannuations of sunk realms, Or Nature's rocks toil'd hard in waves and winds, Seem'd but the faulture of decrepit things To that eternal domed monument. Upon the marble at my feet there lay Store of strange vessels and large draperies, Which needs had been of dyed asbestos wove, Or in that place the moth could not corrupt, So white the linen, so, in some, distinct Ran imageries from a sombre loom. All in a mingled heap confus'd there lay Robes, golden tongs, censer and chafing dish, Girdles, and chains, and holy jewelries. Turning from these with awe, once more I rais'd My eyes to fathom the space every way; The embossed roof, the silent massy range