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Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm, Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the old Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform : The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold.
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
3. 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,
4. 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.
5. 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
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— To thy high requiem become a sod.
7. 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
ODE ON A GRECIAN URN.
THOU still unravish’d bride of quietness,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these ? What maidens loth P
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy P
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
JAh, 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?