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Ode to a Nightingale
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 to 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 for a long age in the deep-delved earth
Tasting of Flora and the country green
Dance, of Provencal 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 have a drink, and leave the world unseen
And with thee fade away into the forest dim
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
what thou amongst 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 filled with 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-mays eldest child
The coming musk rose, 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
Called him soft names in many amused rhymes
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 song I head this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emporer and clown
Perhaps the self same song found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home
She stood in tears among the alien corn
The same that oft times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, and faery lands forlorn
Forlorn, the word is like a bell
That tolls me back from thee to my soul self
Adieu! The fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, decieving elf
Adieu! Adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still strem
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?
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