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ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk.
In some melodious plot
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O for a draught of vintage, that hath been
Cooled a long aye in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burnt 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 stainèd 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;
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Or new love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards;
But here there is no light,
Through verdurous glooms, and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
And mid-May's eldest child,
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, 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,
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.
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;
In ancient days by emperor and clown;
The same that oft-times hath Charmed 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 !
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
In the next valley-glades:
Fled is that music:-Do I wake or sleep?
SONG OF THE DANISH SEA-KING.
OUR bark is on the waters deep, our bright blade's in our hand,
Our bark is dancing on the waves, its tall masts quivering bend
Our eagle-wings of might we stretch before the gallant wind,
Lords of this wide-spread wilderness of waters, we bound free,
The warrior of the land may back the wild horse in his pride;
Hurrah! hurrah! the wind is up-it bloweth fresh and free,