I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,.Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown.Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays.And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,.Already with thee! tender is the night,.Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:.Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,.Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,.
Ode to a nightingale full#
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow.Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies.Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,.Here, where men sit and hear each other groan.What thou among the leaves hast never known,.Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget.And with thee fade away into the forest dim:.That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,.With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,.Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,.Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth!.Tasting of Flora and the country green,.Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,.O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been.Singest of summer in full-throated ease.Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,.That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,.But being too happy in thine happiness,.‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,.One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:.Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains.My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,.My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains.
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