A recent search through the vast holdings of the Vrzhu Research Bureau archives uncovered the draft of a previously unknown poem by John Keats. It appears that Keats started on this poem just before his Annus Mirabilis of 1819. He abandoned the effort late in 1818, as is made clear by a hastily scribbled annotation at the bottom: "Note to self: Never drink Laphroaig Scotch again! Bloody newfangled hippocrene nearly did me in! Look at this shite!"
It's evident that Keats cannabilized the best of this draft for his "Ode to Pysche," but why he did not continue with the poem below, or why he made the change is open to speculation, absent any other documentary evidence.
Ode to the Accordion (draft)
John Keats
O Accordion! Hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
Even into thine own squeeze-boxèd ear:
Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see
The strapped accordion with awaken'd eyes?
I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly,
And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
Saw two fair creatures, couchèd side by side
In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof
Of leaves and tremblèd blossoms, where there ran
A brooklet, scarce espied:
'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,
Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,
He lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass;
Arms embraced an accordion new;
His lips mov'd not, but had not bid adieu,
As if disjoinèd by soft-handed slumber,
And ready still to play a Polka number
At tender eye-dawn of Tyrolean love.
The winged boy I knew;
But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
His Accordion true!
O German born and loveliest vision far
Of Terpishore’s faded hierarchy!
Fairer than Banjo or torso’d Guitar,
Or Bagpipes, amorous wheeze-drones of northlands high;
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
Nor altar heap'd with flowers;
Nor dirndl’d-choir to make delicious moan
Upon the midnight hours;
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no Pilsner sweet
From foaming beer stein teeming;
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
Of pale-mouth'd Polka dreaming.
O brightest! though too late for antique vows,
Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,
When holy were the haunted forest boughs,
Holy the air, the water, and the fire;
Yet even in these days so far retir'd
From gay pieties, thy lucent bellows,
Fluttering among the Czech-Slovak fellows,
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 keyboard sweet
From swingèd tempos teeming;
Thy reeds, thy grill, thy buttons bass, thy heat
Of pale-mouth'd Polka dreaming.
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