MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains |
|
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, |
|
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains |
|
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: |
|
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, |
5 |
But being too happy in thine happiness, |
|
That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees, |
|
In some melodious plot |
|
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, |
|
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. |
10 |
| |
O for a draught of vintage! that hath been
|
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvèd earth, |
|
Tasting of Flora and the country-green, |
|
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! |
|
O for a beaker full of the warm South! |
15 |
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, |
|
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, |
|
And purple-stainèd mouth; |
|
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, |
|
And with thee fade away into the forest dim: |
20 |
| |
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
|
What thou among the leaves hast never known, |
|
The weariness, the fever, and the fret |
|
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; |
|
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, |
25 |
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; |
|
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow |
|
And leaden-eyed despairs; |
|
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, |
|
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. |
30 |
| |
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
|
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, |
|
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, |
|
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: |
|
Already with thee! tender is the night, |
35 |
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, |
|
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays |
|
But here there is no light, |
|
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown |
|
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. |
40 |
| |
|
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, |
|
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, |
|
But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet |
|
Wherewith the seasonable month endows |
|
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; |
45 |
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; |
|
Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves; |
|
And mid-May's eldest child, |
|
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, |
|
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. |
50 |
| |
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
|
I have been half in love with easeful Death, |
|
Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, |
|
To take into the air my quiet breath; |
|
Now more than ever seems it rich to die, |
55 |
To cease upon the midnight with no pain, |
|
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad |
|
In such an ecstasy! |
|
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— |
|
To thy high requiem become a sod. |
60 |
| |
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
|
No hungry generations tread thee down; |
|
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 |
65 |
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, |
|
She stood in tears amid the alien corn; |
|
The same that ofttimes hath |
|
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam |
|
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
70 |
| |
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
|
To toll me back from thee to my sole self! |
|
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well |
|
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. |
|
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades |
75 |
Past the near meadows, over the still stream, |
|
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep |
|
In the next valley-glades: |
|
Was it a vision, or a waking dream? |
|
Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep? |
80 |
