II O for a draught of vintage! that hath been Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, III 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 gray 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, IV 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, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown V I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, VI 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— VII Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! Perhaps the self-same song that found a path The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Forlorn! the VIII 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? 157 INTO my heart an air that kills 158 Keats. What are those blue remember'd hills, What spires, what farms are those? That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, The happy highways where I went A. E. Housman. MUSIC, when soft voices die, Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, M Shelley. 159* Song of the Lotos-Eaters 1 THERE is sweet music here that softer falls Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, 2 Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, And make perpetual moan, Still from one sorrow to another thrown : Nor ever fold our wings, And cease from wanderings, Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm ; Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, 'There is no joy but calm!' Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things? 3 Lo! in the middle of the wood, The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud With winds upon the branch, and there Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light, All its allotted length of days, The flower ripens in its place, Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, 4 Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, In silence; ripen, fall, and cease : Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. 5 How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem Falling asleep in a half-dream! |