I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 45 The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 50 Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 55 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- 60 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 Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam 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 famed to do, deceiving elf. 65 70 Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music :-do I wake or sleep? CCXXIII ODE TO A SKYLARK. Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest, Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, 75 80 John Keats. 5 And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. ΙΟ In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied Joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight: Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 15 20 25 All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden 31 35 In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour 40 With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: 45 Like a glowworm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the 50 view : Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged 55 thieves. U Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphal chaunt, Matched with thine, would be all But an empty vaunt A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? 60 65 70 What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? 75 With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, 80 Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? 85 We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, 91 95 Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! 100 Teach me half the gladness Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now! 105 Percy Bysshe Shelley. CCXXIV 'ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR. 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move : My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone! 5 |