LITMIR.BIZ

      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,

      But being too happy in thine happiness, —

      That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,

      In some melodious plot

      Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,

      Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

      O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been

      Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,

      Tasting of Flora and the country green,

      Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!

      O for a beaker full of the warm South,

      Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

      With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

      And purple-stained mouth;

      That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,

      And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

      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 gray hairs,

      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 tomorrow.

      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,

      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.

      I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

      Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,

      But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet

      Wherewith the seasonable month endows

      The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;

      White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;

      Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves;

      And mid-May’s eldest child,

      The coming muskrose, full of dewy wine,

      The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

      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 mused rhyme,

      To take into the air my quiet breath;

      Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

      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.

      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 selfsame 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 ofttimes hath

      Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam

      Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

      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 fam’d to do, deceiving elf.

      Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades

      Past the near meadows, over the still stream,

      Up the hillside; 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?

      When I have fears that I may cease to be

      Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain,

      Before high-piled books, in charactery,’

      Hold like rich gamers the full ripen’d grain;

      When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face,

      Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,

      And think that I may never live to trace

      Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;

      And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,

      That I shall never look upon thee more,

      Never have relish in the faery power

      Of unreflecting love; – then on the shore

      Of the wide world I stand alone, and think

      Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.