Still longed for, never seen.
To Keats the vista unfolded of the past reached far beyond his own time:
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown;
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charmed magic easements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.