A CASEMENT high and triple arch'd there was, Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, queens Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, ** and kings. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 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, 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, 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 coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, Darkling I listen; and, for many a time, I have been half in love with easeful Death, Now more than ever seems it rich to die, Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain- Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird! Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home, The same that ofttimes hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Was it a vision, or a waking dream? ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness! A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legerd 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 Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone; Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, What little town by river or sea-shore, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede 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. SONNETS. To one who has been long in city pent, 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair And face of heaven, -to breathe a prayer open Full in the smile of the blue firmament. Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, Catching the notes of Philomel,—an eye That falls through the clear ether silently. HAPPY is England! I could be content To see no other verdure than its own; To feel no other breezes than are blown Through its tall woods with high romances blent : |