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 to-morrow.
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 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,
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 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
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
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?
I hope that your day is filled with Love and Laughter. Be well my friends.
But I have a dirty little secret. . .
