Some might lament that I was cold, They might lament,-for I am one Whom men love not-and yet regret; Unlike this day, which, when the sun Shall on its stainless glory set, Will linger, though enjoy'd, like joy in memory yet. TO NIGHT. SWIFTLY walk over the western wave, Spirit of Night! Out of the misty eastern cave, Where, all the long and lone daylight, Wrap thy form in a mantle grey, Star-inwrought! Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day, Kiss her until she be wearied out, Then wander o'er city, and sea, and sand, Touching all with thine opiate wand Come, long-sought! When I arose and saw the Dawn, I sigh'd for thee; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, TO NIGHT. And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, Thy brother Death came, and cried, Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Death will come when thou art dead, Soon, too soon- Sleep will come when thou art fled: SPRING. O SPRING! of hope, and love, and youth, and gladness, ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 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, 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, 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, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 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 musèd 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, Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! |