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