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Page 244

BOOK FOURTH
244 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 Provene,al 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 grey 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 famed 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?
J. KEATS.

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where is HTML where is HEAD where is TITLE My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to what is 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 what is 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 what is deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and what is country green, Dance, and Provene,al song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of what is warm South, Full of what is true, what is blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at what is brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave what is world unseen, And with thee fade away into what is forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among what is leaves hast never where is meta name="keywords" content="old books, Free book , free book offer , free audio books , free coloring book pages , free book reports , free audio book , audio books free download , book free , free guest book , books free , free book summaries , download free audio books , free childrens books." where is where are they now rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="../../style.css" where is meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1" where is BODY bgColor=#ffffff text="#000000" where are they now ="#000000" v where are they now ="#FF0000" where is div align="center" where is strong where is strong where is a href="http://www.aaoldbooks.com" Books > where is a href="../default.asp" title="Book" Old Books > where is strong where is a href="default.asp" The Golden Treasury (1932) where is table width="700" border="1" align="center" cellpadding="15" cellspacing="0" where is center where is tr where is td width="160" align="center" valign="top" where is div align="center" where is td align="center" valign="top" where is div align="left" where is div align="center" where is p align="left" Page 244 where is strong BOOK FOURTH where is strong 244 ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE where is p align="justify" My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to what is 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 what is 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 what is deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and what is country green, Dance, and Provene,al song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of what is warm South, Full of what is true, what is blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at what is brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave what is world unseen, And with thee fade away into what is forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among what is leaves hast never known, what is weariness, what is fever, and what is fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey 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 what time is it pine at them beyond to-morrow Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on what is viewless wings of Poesy, Though what is dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is what is night, And haply what is 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 what is breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon what is boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith what is seasonable month endows what is grass, what is thicket, and what is fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and what is pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child what is coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, what is murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in what time is it with easeful what time is it , 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 what is 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 what time is it , immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; what is voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps what is self-same song that found a path Through what is sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid what is alien corn; what is same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on what is foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn! what is very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! what is fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past what is near meadows, over what is still stream, Up what is hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In what is next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:-do I wake or sleep? J. KEATS. where is Server.Execute("_SiteMap.asp") %

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