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Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim verge
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ's bay,
overgrown with azure moss and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves : O hear!
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
Mænad] mad priestess of Bacchus.
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
the thorns of life! I bleed !
A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd One too like thee : tameless, and swift, and proud.
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is :
my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
my dead thoughts over the universe Like wither'd leaves to quicken a new birth ! And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
Ode on a Grecian Urn
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : What leaf-fringed legend 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
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on ;
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone :
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal-yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair !
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu ;
For ever piping songs for ever new;
For ever panting, and for ever young ;
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice ?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest ?
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn ?
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude ! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed ;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity : Cold Pastoral ! 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.
brede) braid, embroidery, band of ornament.
Look thy last on all things lovely,
Till to delight
Walter de la Mare.
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea !
The thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
That he sings in his boat on the bay !
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill ;
And the sound of a voice that is still !
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!