Ode to Evening
By William Collins
If
aught of oaten stop, or past'ral song,
May
hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
Like
thy own solemn springs,
Thy springs
and dying gales,
O nymph
reserved, while now the bright-haired sun
Sits in
yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With
brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang
his wavy bed;
Now air
is hushed, save where the weak-ey'd bat
With
short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,
Or
where the beetle winds
His
small but sullen horn
As oft
he rises 'midst the twilight path
Against
the pilgrim, borne in heedless hum:
Now
teach me, maid composed,
To
breathe some softened strain,
Whose
numbers stealing through thy dark'ning vale
May not
unseemly with its stillness suit,
As
musing slow, I hail
Thy
genial loved return.
For
when thy folding star arising shows
His
paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The
fragrant Hours, and elves
Who
slept in flowers the day,
And
many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge
And
sheds the fresh'ning dew, and lovelier still,
The
pensive pleasures sweet
Prepare
thy shad'wy car.
Then
lead, calm votress, where some sheety lake
Cheers
the lone heath, or some time-hallowed pile
Or
upland fallows grey
Reflect
its last cool gleam.
But
when chill blust'ring winds, or driving rain,
Forbid
my willing feet, be mine the hut
That
from the mountain's side
Views
wilds, and swelling floods,
And
hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires,
And
hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all
Thy
dewy fingers draw
The
gradual dusky veil.
While
Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,
And
bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve;
While
Summer loves to sport
Beneath
thy ling'ring light;
While
sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;
Or
Winter, yelling through the troublous air,
Affrights
thy shrinking train
And
rudely rends thy robes;
So
long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed,
Shall
Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lipp'd Health,
Thy
gentlest influence own,
And hymn thy fav'rite
name!
A Poison
Tree
By William Blake
I was
angry with my friend;
I told
my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was
angry with my foe:
I told
it not, my wrath did grow.
And I
waterd it in fears,
Night
& morning with my tears:
And I
sunned it with smiles,
And
with soft deceitful wiles.
And it
grew both day and night.
Till it
bore an apple bright.
And my
foe beheld it shine,
And he
knew that it was mine.
And
into my garden stole,
When
the night had veild the pole;
In the
morning glad I see;
My foe outstretched
beneath the tree.
Tyger
Tyger, burning bright,
In the
forests of the night;
What
immortal hand or eye,
Could
frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what
distant deeps or skies.
Burnt
the fire of thine eyes?
On what
wings dare he aspire?
What
the hand, dare seize the fire?
And
what shoulder, & what art,
Could
twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when
thy heart began to beat,
What
dread hand? & what dread feet?
What
the hammer? what the chain,
In what
furnace was thy brain?
What
the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare
its deadly terrors clasp!
When
the stars threw down their spears
And
water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he
smile his work to see?
Did he
who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger
Tyger burning bright,
In the
forests of the night:
What
immortal hand or eye,
Dare
frame thy fearful symmetry?
The Lamb
By William Blake
Little
Lamb who made thee
Dost
thou know who made thee
Gave
thee life & bid thee feed.
By the
stream & o'er the mead;
Gave
thee clothing of delight,
Softest
clothing wooly bright;
Gave
thee such a tender voice,
Making
all the vales rejoice!
Little
Lamb who made thee
Dost
thou know who made thee
Little
Lamb I'll tell thee,
Little
Lamb I'll tell thee!
He is
called by thy name,
For he
calls himself a Lamb:
He is
meek & he is mild,
He
became a little child:
I a
child & thou a lamb,
We are
called by his name.
Little
Lamb God bless thee.
Little
Lamb God bless thee.
Romantic Period
Lines
Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey, On Revisiting the Banks of the Wye
during a Tour. July 13, 1798
By William Wordsworth
By William Wordsworth
Five
years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five
long winters! and again I hear
These
waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a
soft inland murmur.—Once again
Do I
behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on
a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts
of more deep seclusion; and connect
The
landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day
is come when I again repose
Here,
under this dark sycamore, and view
These
plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
Which
at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad
in one green hue, and lose themselves
'Mid
groves and copses. Once again I see
These
hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of
sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,
Green
to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent
up, in silence, from among the trees!
With
some uncertain notice, as might seem
Of
vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of
some Hermit's cave, where by his fire
The
Hermit sits alone.
These beauteous forms,
Through
a long absence, have not been to me
As is a
landscape to a blind man's eye:
But
oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of
towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In
hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in
the blood, and felt along the heart;
And
passing even into my purer mind
With
tranquil restoration:—feelings too
Of
unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
As have
no slight or trivial influence
On that
best portion of a good man's life,
His
little, nameless, unremembered, acts
Of
kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them
I may have owed another gift,
Of
aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
In
which the burthen of the mystery,
In
which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all
this unintelligible world,
Is
lightened:—that serene and blessed mood,
In
which the affections gently lead us on,—
Until,
the breath of this corporeal frame
And
even the motion of our human blood
Almost
suspended, we are laid asleep
In
body, and become a living soul:
While
with an eye made quiet by the power
Of
harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see
into the life of things.
If this
Be but
a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft—
In
darkness and amid the many shapes
Of
joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable,
and the fever of the world,
Have
hung upon the beatings of my heart—
How
oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
O
sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods,
How
often has my spirit turned to thee!
And
now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,
With
many recognitions dim and faint,
And
somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The
picture of the mind revives again:
While
here I stand, not only with the sense
Of
present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
That in
this moment there is life and food
For
future years. And so I dare to hope,
Though
changed, no doubt, from what I was when first
I came
among these hills; when like a roe
I
bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Of the
deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever
nature led: more like a man
Flying
from something that he dreads, than one
Who
sought the thing he loved. For nature then
(The
coarser pleasures of my boyish days
And
their glad animal movements all gone by)
To me
was all in all.—I cannot paint
What
then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted
me like a passion: the tall rock,
The
mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their
colours and their forms, were then to me
An
appetite; a feeling and a love,
That
had no need of a remoter charm,
By
thought supplied, not any interest
Unborrowed
from the eye.—That time is past,
And all
its aching joys are now no more,
And all
its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint
I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts
Have
followed; for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant
recompense. For I have learned
To look
on nature, not as in the hour
Of
thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
The
still sad music of humanity,
Nor
harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To
chasten and subdue.—And I have felt
A
presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of
elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of
something far more deeply interfused,
Whose
dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the
round ocean and the living air,
And the
blue sky, and in the mind of man:
A
motion and a spirit, that impels
All
thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And
rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover
of the meadows and the woods
And
mountains; and of all that we behold
From
this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye,
and ear,—both what they half create,
And
what perceive; well pleased to recognise
In
nature and the language of the sense
The
anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The
guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all
my moral being.
Nor perchance,
If I
were not thus taught, should I the more
Suffer
my genial spirits to decay:
For
thou art with me here upon the banks
Of this
fair river; thou my dearest Friend,
My
dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch
The
language of my former heart, and read
My
former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy
wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
May I
behold in thee what I was once,
My
dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,
Knowing
that Nature never did betray
The
heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
Through
all the years of this our life, to lead
From
joy to joy: for she can so inform
The
mind that is within us, so impress
With
quietness and beauty, and so feed
With
lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash
judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor
greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The
dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall
e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our
cheerful faith, that all which we behold
Is full
of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine
on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let
the misty mountain-winds be free
To blow
against thee: and, in after years,
When
these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a
sober pleasure; when thy mind
Shall be
a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy
memory be as a dwelling-place
For all
sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
If
solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should
be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of
tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these
my exhortations! Nor, perchance—
If I
should be where I no more can hear
Thy
voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past
existence—wilt thou then forget
That on
the banks of this delightful stream
We
stood together; and that I, so long
A
worshipper of Nature, hither came
Unwearied
in that service: rather say
With
warmer love—oh! with far deeper zeal
Of
holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That
after many wanderings, many years
Of
absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And
this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for
themselves and for thy sake!
Kubla
Khan
Or, a vision in a dream.
A Fragment.
In
Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A
stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where
Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through
caverns measureless to man
Down
to a sunless sea.
So
twice five miles of fertile ground
With
walls and towers were girdled round;
And
there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where
blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And
here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding
sunny spots of greenery.
But oh!
that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down
the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A
savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e’er
beneath a waning moon was haunted
By
woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And
from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if
this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A
mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid
whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge
fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or
chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:
And mid
these dancing rocks at once and ever
It
flung up momently the sacred river.
Five
miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through
wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then
reached the caverns measureless to man,
And
sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean;
And
’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral
voices prophesying war!
The
shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated
midway on the waves;
Where
was heard the mingled measure
From
the fountain and the caves.
It was
a miracle of rare device,
A sunny
pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A
damsel with a dulcimer
In
a vision once I saw:
It
was an Abyssinian maid
And
on her dulcimer she played,
Singing
of Mount Abora.
Could
I revive within me
Her
symphony and song,
To
such a deep delight ’twould win me,
That
with music loud and long,
I would
build that dome in air,
That
sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all
who heard should see them there,
And all
should cry, Beware! Beware!
His
flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a
circle round him thrice,
And
close your eyes with holy dread
For he
on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of
Paradise.
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 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?
Ode on a
Grecian Urn
By John Keats
Thou
still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan
historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What
leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In
Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What
mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What
pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard
melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to
the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair
youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold
Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though
winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For
ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah,
happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your
leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And,
happy melodist, unwearied,
For
ever piping songs for ever new;
More
happy love! more happy, happy love!
For
ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All
breathing human passion far above,
That
leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are
these coming to the sacrifice?
To
what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st
thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And
all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What
little town by river or sea shore,
Or
mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And,
little town, thy streets for evermore
Will
silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic
shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of
marble men and maidens overwrought,
With
forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou,
silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth
eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When
old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than
ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty
is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
The Lotos-eaters
By Alfred Lord Tennyson
By Alfred Lord Tennyson
"Courage!"
he said, and pointed toward the land,
"This
mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon."
In the
afternoon they came unto a land
In
which it seemed always afternoon.
All
round the coast the languid air did swoon,
Breathing
like one that hath a weary dream.
Full-faced
above the valley stood the moon;
And
like a downward smoke, the slender stream
Along
the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.
A land
of streams! some, like a downward smoke,
Slow-dropping
veils of thinnest lawn, did go;
And
some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke,
Rolling
a slumbrous sheet of foam below.
They
saw the gleaming river seaward flow
From
the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops,
Three
silent pinnacles of aged snow,
Stood
sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery drops,
Up-clomb
the shadowy pine above the woven copse.
The
charmed sunset linger'd low adown
In the
red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale
Was
seen far inland, and the yellow down
Border'd
with palm, and many a winding vale
And
meadow, set with slender galingale;
A land
where all things always seem'd the same!
And
round about the keel with faces pale,
Dark
faces pale against that rosy flame,
The
mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.
Branches
they bore of that enchanted stem,
Laden
with flower and fruit, whereof they gave
To
each, but whoso did receive of them,
And
taste, to him the gushing of the wave
Far far
away did seem to mourn and rave
On
alien shores; and if his fellow spake,
His
voice was thin, as voices from the grave;
And
deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake,
And
music in his ears his beating heart did make.
They
sat them down upon the yellow sand,
Between
the sun and moon upon the shore;
And
sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,
Of
child, and wife, and slave; but evermore
Most
weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar,
Weary
the wandering fields of barren foam.
Then
some one said, "We will return no more";
And all
at once they sang, "Our island home
Is far
beyond the wave; we will no longer roam."
CHORIC
SONG
I
There
is sweet music here that softer falls
Than
petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or
night-dews on still waters between walls
Of
shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
Music
that gentlier on the spirit lies,
Than
tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes;
Music
that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.
Here
are cool mosses deep,
And
thro' the moss the ivies creep,
And in
the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
And
from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep."
II
Why are
we weigh'd upon with heaviness,
And utterly
consumed with sharp distress,
While
all things else have rest from weariness?
All
things have rest: why should we toil alone,
We only
toil, who are the first of things,
And
make perpetual moan,
Still
from one sorrow to another thrown:
Nor
ever fold our wings,
And
cease from wanderings,
Nor
steep our brows in slumber's holy balm;
Nor
harken what the inner spirit sings,
"There
is no joy but calm!"
Why
should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?
III
Lo! in
the middle of the wood,
The
folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud
With
winds upon the branch, and there
Grows
green and broad, and takes no care,
Sun-steep'd
at noon, and in the moon
Nightly
dew-fed; and turning yellow
Falls,
and floats adown the air.
Lo!
sweeten'd with the summer light,
The
full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,
Drops
in a silent autumn night.
All its
allotted length of days
The
flower ripens in its place,
Ripens
and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,
Fast-rooted
in the fruitful soil.
IV
Hateful
is the dark-blue sky,
Vaulted
o'er the dark-blue sea.
Death
is the end of life; ah, why
Should
life all labour be?
Let us
alone. Time driveth onward fast,
And in
a little while our lips are dumb.
Let us
alone. What is it that will last?
All
things are taken from us, and become
Portions
and parcels of the dreadful past.
Let us
alone. What pleasure can we have
To war
with evil? Is there any peace
In ever
climbing up the climbing wave?
All
things have rest, and ripen toward the grave
In
silence; ripen, fall and cease:
Give us
long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.
V
How
sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,
With
half-shut eyes ever to seem
Falling
asleep in a half-dream!
To
dream and dream, like yonder amber light,
Which will
not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;
To hear
each other's whisper'd speech;
Eating
the Lotos day by day,
To
watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
And
tender curving lines of creamy spray;
To lend
our hearts and spirits wholly
To the
influence of mild-minded melancholy;
To muse
and brood and live again in memory,
With
those old faces of our infancy
Heap'd
over with a mound of grass,
Two
handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!
VI
Dear is
the memory of our wedded lives,
And dear
the last embraces of our wives
And
their warm tears: but all hath suffer'd change:
For
surely now our household hearths are cold,
Our
sons inherit us: our looks are strange:
And we
should come like ghosts to trouble joy.
Or else
the island princes over-bold
Have
eat our substance, and the minstrel sings
Before
them of the ten years' war in Troy,
And our
great deeds, as half-forgotten things.
Is
there confusion in the little isle?
Let
what is broken so remain.
The
Gods are hard to reconcile:
'Tis
hard to settle order once again.
There is confusion
worse than death,
Trouble
on trouble, pain on pain,
Long
labour unto aged breath,
Sore
task to hearts worn out by many wars
And
eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.
VII
But,
propt on beds of amaranth and moly,
How
sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly)
With
half-dropt eyelid still,
Beneath
a heaven dark and holy,
To
watch the long bright river drawing slowly
His
waters from the purple hill—
To hear
the dewy echoes calling
From
cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine—
To
watch the emerald-colour'd water falling
Thro'
many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine!
Only to
hear and see the far-off sparkling brine,
Only to
hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine.
VIII
The
Lotos blooms below the barren peak:
The
Lotos blows by every winding creek:
All day
the wind breathes low with mellower tone:
Thro'
every hollow cave and alley lone
Round
and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown.
We have
had enough of action, and of motion we,
Roll'd
to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seething free,
Where
the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea.
Let us
swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind,
In the
hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined
On the
hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.
For
they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd
Far
below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd
Round
their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world:
Where
they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands,
Blight
and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands,
Clanging
fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands.
But
they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song
Steaming
up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong,
Like a
tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong;
Chanted
from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil,
Sow the
seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil,
Storing
yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil;
Till
they perish and they suffer—some, 'tis whisper'd—down in hell
Suffer
endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell,
Resting
weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.
Surely,
surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore
Than
labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;
O, rest ye, brother
mariners, we will not wander more.
The Scholar-Gipsy
By Matthew Arnold
Go, for
they call you, shepherd, from the hill;
Go,
shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes!
No
longer leave thy wistful flock unfed,
Nor let
thy bawling fellows rack their throats,
Nor the
cropp'd herbage shoot another head.
But
when the fields are still,
And the
tired men and dogs all gone to rest,
And
only the white sheep are sometimes seen
Cross
and recross the strips of moon-blanch'd green.
Come,
shepherd, and again begin the quest!
Here,
where the reaper was at work of late—
In this
high field's dark corner, where he leaves
His
coat, his basket, and his earthen cruse,
And in
the sun all morning binds the sheaves,
Then
here, at noon, comes back his stores to use—
Here
will I sit and wait,
While
to my ear from uplands far away
The
bleating of the folded flocks is borne,
With
distant cries of reapers in the corn—
All the
live murmur of a summer's day.
Screen'd
is this nook o'er the high, half-reap'd field,
And
here till sun-down, shepherd! will I be.
Through
the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep,
And
round green roots and yellowing stalks I see
Pale
pink convolvulus in tendrils creep;
And
air-swept lindens yield
Their scent,
and rustle down their perfumed showers
Of
bloom on the bent grass where I am laid,
And
bower me from the August sun with shade;
And the
eye travels down to Oxford's towers.
And
near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book—
Come,
let me read the oft-read tale again!
The
story of the Oxford scholar poor,
Of
pregnant parts and quick inventive brain,
Who,
tired of knocking at preferment's door,
One
summer-morn forsook
His
friends, and went to learn the gipsy-lore,
And
roam'd the world with that wild brotherhood,
And
came, as most men deem'd, to little good,
But
came to Oxford and his friends no more.
But
once, years after, in the country-lanes,
Two
scholars, whom at college erst he knew,
Met
him, and of his way of life enquired;
Whereat
he answer'd, that the gipsy-crew,
His
mates, had arts to rule as they desired
The
workings of men's brains,
And
they can bind them to what thoughts they will.
"And
I," he said, "the secret of their art,
When
fully learn'd, will to the world impart;
But it
needs heaven-sent moments for this skill."
This
said, he left them, and return'd no more.—
But
rumours hung about the country-side,
That
the lost Scholar long was seen to stray,
Seen by
rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied,
In hat
of antique shape, and cloak of grey,
The
same the gipsies wore.
Shepherds
had met him on the Hurst in spring;
At some
lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors,
On the
warm ingle-bench, the smock-frock'd boors
Had
found him seated at their entering,
But,
'mid their drink and clatter, he would fly.
And I
myself seem half to know thy looks,
And put
the shepherds, wanderer! on thy trace;
And
boys who in lone wheatfields scare the rooks
I ask
if thou hast pass'd their quiet place;
Or in
my boat I lie
Moor'd
to the cool bank in the summer-heats,
'Mid
wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills,
And
watch the warm, green-muffled Cumner hills,
And
wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats.
For
most, I know, thou lov'st retired ground!
Thee at
the ferry Oxford riders blithe,
Returning
home on summer-nights, have met
Crossing
the stripling Thames at Bab-lock-hithe,
Trailing
in the cool stream thy fingers wet,
As the
punt's rope chops round;
And
leaning backward in a pensive dream,
And
fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers
Pluck'd
in shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers,
And
thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream.
And
then they land, and thou art seen no more!—
Maidens,
who from the distant hamlets come
To
dance around the Fyfield elm in May,
Oft through
the darkening fields have seen thee roam,
Or
cross a stile into the public way.
Oft
thou hast given them store
Of
flowers—the frail-leaf'd,
white anemony,
Dark
bluebells drench'd with dews of summer eves,
And
purple orchises with spotted leaves—
But
none hath words she can report of thee.
And,
above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time's here
In
June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames,
Men who
through those wide fields of breezy grass
Where
black-wing'd swallows haunt the glittering Thames,
To
bathe in the abandon'd lasher pass,
Have
often pass'd thee near
Sitting
upon the river bank o'ergrown;
Mark'd
thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare,
Thy
dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air—
But,
when they came from bathing, thou wast gone!
At some
lone homestead in the Cumner hills,
Where
at her open door the housewife darns,
Thou
hast been seen, or hanging on a gate
To
watch the threshers in the mossy barns.
Children,
who early range these slopes and late
For
cresses from the rills,
Have
known thee eyeing, all an April-day,
The
springing pasture and the feeding kine;
And
mark'd thee, when the stars come out and shine,
Through
the long dewy grass move slow away.
In
autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood—
Where
most the gipsies by the turf-edged way
Pitch
their smoked tents, and every bush you see
With
scarlet patches tagg'd and shreds of grey,
Above
the forest-ground called Thessaly—
The
blackbird, picking food,
Sees
thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all;
So
often has he known thee past him stray,
Rapt,
twirling in thy hand a wither'd spray,
And
waiting for the spark from heaven to fall.
And
once, in winter, on the causeway chill
Where
home through flooded fields foot-travellers go,
Have I
not pass'd thee on the wooden bridge,
Wrapt
in thy cloak and battling with the snow,
Thy
face tow'rd Hinksey and its wintry ridge?
And
thou has climb'd the hill,
And
gain'd the white brow of the Cumner range;
Turn'd
once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall,
The
line of festal light in Christ-Church hall—
Then
sought thy straw in some sequester'd grange.
But
what—I dream! Two hundred
years are flown
Since
first thy story ran through Oxford halls,
And the
grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe
That
thou wert wander'd from the studious walls
To
learn strange arts, and join a gipsy-tribe;
And
thou from earth art gone
Long
since, and in some quiet churchyard laid—
Some
country-nook, where o'er thy unknown grave
Tall
grasses and white flowering nettles wave,
Under a
dark, red-fruited yew-tree's shade.
—No, no, thou hast not
felt the lapse of hours!
For
what wears out the life of mortal men?
'Tis
that from change to change their being rolls;
'Tis
that repeated shocks, again, again,
Exhaust
the energy of strongest souls
And
numb the elastic powers.
Till
having used our nerves with bliss and teen,
And
tired upon a thousand schemes our wit,
To the
just-pausing Genius we remit
Our
worn-out life, and are—what we have been.
Thou
hast not lived, why should'st thou perish, so?
Thou
hadst one aim, one business, one desire;
Else
wert thou long since number'd with the dead!
Else
hadst thou spent, like other men, thy fire!
The
generations of thy peers are fled,
And we
ourselves shall go;
But thou
possessest an immortal lot,
And we
imagine thee exempt from age
And
living as thou liv'st on Glanvil's page,
Because
thou hadst—what we,
alas! have not.
For
early didst thou leave the world, with powers
Fresh,
undiverted to the world without,
Firm to
their mark, not spent on other things;
Free
from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt,
Which
much to have tried, in much been baffled, brings.
O life
unlike to ours!
Who
fluctuate idly without term or scope,
Of whom
each strives, nor knows for what he strives,
And
each half lives a hundred different lives;
Who
wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope.
Thou
waitest for the spark from heaven! and we,
Light
half-believers of our casual creeds,
Who
never deeply felt, nor clearly will'd,
Whose insight
never has borne fruit in deeds,
Whose
vague resolves never have been fulfill'd;
For
whom each year we see
Breeds
new beginnings, disappointments new;
Who
hesitate and falter life away,
And
lose to-morrow the ground won to-day—
Ah! do
not we, wanderer! await it too?
Yes, we
await it!—but it still delays,
And
then we suffer! and amongst us one,
Who
most has suffer'd, takes dejectedly
His
seat upon the intellectual throne;
And all
his store of sad experience he
Lays
bare of wretched days;
Tells
us his misery's birth and growth and signs,
And how
the dying spark of hope was fed,
And how
the breast was soothed, and how the head,
And all
his hourly varied anodynes.
This
for our wisest! and we others pine,
And
wish the long unhappy dream would end,
And
waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear;
With
close-lipp'd patience for our only friend,
Sad
patience, too near neighbour to despair—
But
none has hope like thine!
Thou
through the fields and through the woods dost stray,
Roaming
the country-side, a truant boy,
Nursing
thy project in unclouded joy,
And
every doubt long blown by time away.
O born
in days when wits were fresh and clear,
And
life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames;
Before
this strange disease of modern life,
With its
sick hurry, its divided aims,
Its
heads o'ertax'd, its palsied hearts, was rife—
Fly
hence, our contact fear!
Still
fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood!
Averse,
as Dido did with gesture stern
From
her false friend's approach in Hades turn,
Wave us
away, and keep thy solitude!
Still
nursing the unconquerable hope,
Still
clutching the inviolable shade,
With a
free, onward impulse brushing through,
By
night, the silver'd branches of the glade—
Far on
the forest-skirts, where none pursue,
On some
mild pastoral slope
Emerge,
and resting on the moonlit pales
Freshen
thy flowers as in former years
With
dew, or listen with enchanted ears,
From
the dark tingles, to the nightingales!
But fly
our paths, our feverish contact fly!
For
strong the infection of our mental strife,
Which,
though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest;
And we
should win thee from thy own fair life,
Like us
distracted, and like us unblest.
Soon,
soon thy cheer would die,
Thy
hopes grow timorous, and unfix'd thy powers,
And thy
clear aims be cross and shifting made;
And
then thy glad perennial youth would fade,
Fade
and grow old at last, and die like ours.
Then
fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles!
—As some
grave Tyrian trader, from the sea,
Descried
at sunrise an emerging prow
Lifting
the cool-hair'd creepers stealthily,
The
fringes of a southward-facing brow
Among
the Ægæan Isles;
And saw
the merry Grecian coaster come,
Freighted
with amber grapes, and Chian wine,
Green,
bursting figs, and tunnies steep'd in brine—
And
knew the intruders on his ancient home,
The
young light-hearted masters of the waves—
And
snatch'd his rudder, and shook out more sail;
And day
and night held on indignantly
O'er
the blue Midland waters with the gale,
Betwixt
the Syrtes and soft Sicily,
To
where the Atlantic raves
Outside
the western straits; and unbent sails
There,
where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam,
Shy
traffickers, the dark Iberians come;
And on the beach undid
his corded bales.
Ode to a Nightingale
By John Keats
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?
Ode on a
Grecian Urn
By John Keats
By John Keats
Thou
still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan
historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What
leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In
Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What
mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What
pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard
melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to
the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair
youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold
Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though
winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For
ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah,
happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your
leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And,
happy melodist, unwearied,
For
ever piping songs for ever new;
More
happy love! more happy, happy love!
For
ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All
breathing human passion far above,
That
leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are
these coming to the sacrifice?
To
what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st
thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And
all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What
little town by river or sea shore,
Or
mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And,
little town, thy streets for evermore
Will
silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic
shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of
marble men and maidens overwrought,
With
forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou,
silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth
eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When
old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than
ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty
is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
The Lotos-eatersBy Alfred Lord Tennyson
"Courage!"
he said, and pointed toward the land,
"This
mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon."
In the
afternoon they came unto a land
In
which it seemed always afternoon.
All
round the coast the languid air did swoon,
Breathing
like one that hath a weary dream.
Full-faced
above the valley stood the moon;
And
like a downward smoke, the slender stream
Along
the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.
A land
of streams! some, like a downward smoke,
Slow-dropping
veils of thinnest lawn, did go;
And
some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke,
Rolling
a slumbrous sheet of foam below.
They
saw the gleaming river seaward flow
From
the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops,
Three
silent pinnacles of aged snow,
Stood
sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery drops,
Up-clomb
the shadowy pine above the woven copse.
The
charmed sunset linger'd low adown
In the
red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale
Was
seen far inland, and the yellow down
Border'd
with palm, and many a winding vale
And
meadow, set with slender galingale;
A land
where all things always seem'd the same!
And
round about the keel with faces pale,
Dark
faces pale against that rosy flame,
The
mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.
Branches
they bore of that enchanted stem,
Laden
with flower and fruit, whereof they gave
To
each, but whoso did receive of them,
And
taste, to him the gushing of the wave
Far far
away did seem to mourn and rave
On
alien shores; and if his fellow spake,
His
voice was thin, as voices from the grave;
And
deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake,
And
music in his ears his beating heart did make.
They
sat them down upon the yellow sand,
Between
the sun and moon upon the shore;
And
sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,
Of
child, and wife, and slave; but evermore
Most
weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar,
Weary
the wandering fields of barren foam.
Then
some one said, "We will return no more";
And all
at once they sang, "Our island home
Is far
beyond the wave; we will no longer roam."
CHORIC
SONG
I
There
is sweet music here that softer falls
Than
petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or
night-dews on still waters between walls
Of
shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
Music
that gentlier on the spirit lies,
Than
tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes;
Music
that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.
Here
are cool mosses deep,
And
thro' the moss the ivies creep,
And in
the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
And
from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep."
II
Why are
we weigh'd upon with heaviness,
And utterly
consumed with sharp distress,
While
all things else have rest from weariness?
All
things have rest: why should we toil alone,
We only
toil, who are the first of things,
And
make perpetual moan,
Still
from one sorrow to another thrown:
Nor
ever fold our wings,
And
cease from wanderings,
Nor
steep our brows in slumber's holy balm;
Nor
harken what the inner spirit sings,
"There
is no joy but calm!"
Why
should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?
III
Lo! in
the middle of the wood,
The
folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud
With
winds upon the branch, and there
Grows
green and broad, and takes no care,
Sun-steep'd
at noon, and in the moon
Nightly
dew-fed; and turning yellow
Falls,
and floats adown the air.
Lo!
sweeten'd with the summer light,
The
full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,
Drops
in a silent autumn night.
All its
allotted length of days
The
flower ripens in its place,
Ripens
and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,
Fast-rooted
in the fruitful soil.
IV
Hateful
is the dark-blue sky,
Vaulted
o'er the dark-blue sea.
Death
is the end of life; ah, why
Should
life all labour be?
Let us
alone. Time driveth onward fast,
And in
a little while our lips are dumb.
Let us
alone. What is it that will last?
All
things are taken from us, and become
Portions
and parcels of the dreadful past.
Let us
alone. What pleasure can we have
To war
with evil? Is there any peace
In ever
climbing up the climbing wave?
All
things have rest, and ripen toward the grave
In
silence; ripen, fall and cease:
Give us
long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.
V
How
sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,
With
half-shut eyes ever to seem
Falling
asleep in a half-dream!
To
dream and dream, like yonder amber light,
Which will
not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;
To hear
each other's whisper'd speech;
Eating
the Lotos day by day,
To
watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
And
tender curving lines of creamy spray;
To lend
our hearts and spirits wholly
To the
influence of mild-minded melancholy;
To muse
and brood and live again in memory,
With
those old faces of our infancy
Heap'd
over with a mound of grass,
Two
handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!
VI
Dear is
the memory of our wedded lives,
And dear
the last embraces of our wives
And
their warm tears: but all hath suffer'd change:
For
surely now our household hearths are cold,
Our
sons inherit us: our looks are strange:
And we
should come like ghosts to trouble joy.
Or else
the island princes over-bold
Have
eat our substance, and the minstrel sings
Before
them of the ten years' war in Troy,
And our
great deeds, as half-forgotten things.
Is
there confusion in the little isle?
Let
what is broken so remain.
The
Gods are hard to reconcile:
'Tis
hard to settle order once again.
There is confusion
worse than death,
Trouble
on trouble, pain on pain,
Long
labour unto aged breath,
Sore
task to hearts worn out by many wars
And
eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.
VII
But,
propt on beds of amaranth and moly,
How
sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly)
With
half-dropt eyelid still,
Beneath
a heaven dark and holy,
To
watch the long bright river drawing slowly
His
waters from the purple hill—
To hear
the dewy echoes calling
From
cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine—
To
watch the emerald-colour'd water falling
Thro'
many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine!
Only to
hear and see the far-off sparkling brine,
Only to
hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine.
VIII
The
Lotos blooms below the barren peak:
The
Lotos blows by every winding creek:
All day
the wind breathes low with mellower tone:
Thro'
every hollow cave and alley lone
Round
and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown.
We have
had enough of action, and of motion we,
Roll'd
to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seething free,
Where
the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea.
Let us
swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind,
In the
hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined
On the
hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.
For
they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd
Far
below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd
Round
their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world:
Where
they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands,
Blight
and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands,
Clanging
fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands.
But
they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song
Steaming
up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong,
Like a
tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong;
Chanted
from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil,
Sow the
seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil,
Storing
yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil;
Till
they perish and they suffer—some, 'tis whisper'd—down in hell
Suffer
endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell,
Resting
weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.
Surely,
surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore
Than
labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;
O, rest ye, brother
mariners, we will not wander more.
Ode to a Nightingale
By John Keats
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?
Ode on a
Grecian Urn
By John Keats
By John Keats
Thou
still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan
historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What
leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In
Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What
mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What
pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard
melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to
the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair
youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold
Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though
winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For
ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah,
happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your
leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And,
happy melodist, unwearied,
For
ever piping songs for ever new;
More
happy love! more happy, happy love!
For
ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All
breathing human passion far above,
That
leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are
these coming to the sacrifice?
To
what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st
thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And
all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What
little town by river or sea shore,
Or
mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And,
little town, thy streets for evermore
Will
silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic
shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of
marble men and maidens overwrought,
With
forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou,
silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth
eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When
old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than
ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty
is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
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