Or, a vision in a dream. A Fragment.
　　
　　
　　
　　In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
　　A stately pleasure-dome decree:
　　Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
　　Through caverns measureless to man
　　 Down to a sunless sea.
　　So twice five miles of fertile ground
　　With walls and towers were girdled round;
　　And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
　　Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
　　And here were forests ancient as the hills,
　　Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
　　
　　
　　But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
　　Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
　　A savage place! as holy and enchanted
　　As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
　　By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
　　And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
　　As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
　　A mighty fountain momently was forced:
　　Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
　　Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
　　Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:
　　And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
　　It flung up momently the sacred river.
　　Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
　　Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
　　Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
　　And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean;
　　And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
　　Ancestral voices prophesying war!
　　 The shadow of the dome of pleasure
　　 Floated midway on the waves;
　　 Where was heard the mingled measure
　　 From the fountain and the caves.
　　It was a miracle of rare device,
　　A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
　　
　　
　　 A damsel with a dulcimer
　　 In a vision once I saw:
　　 It was an Abyssinian maid
　　 And on her dulcimer she played,
　　 Singing of Mount Abora.
　　 Could I revive within me
　　 Her symphony and song,
　　 To such a deep delight ’twould win me,
　　That with music loud and long,
　　I would build that dome in air,
　　That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
　　And all who heard should see them there,
　　And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
　　His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
　　Weave a circle round him thrice,
　　And close your eyes with holy dread
　　For he on honey-dew hath fed,
　　And drunk the milk of Paradise.

　　Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
　　Where may the grave of that good man be?—
　　By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,
　　Under the twigs of a young birch tree!
　　The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,
　　And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,
　　And whistled and roared in the winter alone,
　　Is gone,—and the birch in its stead is grown.—
　　The Knight's bones are dust,
　　And his good sword rust;—
　　His soul is with the saints, I trust.