The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 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 mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 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! She stood in tears amid the alien corn; Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Forlorn! the 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? ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness! 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? [loath? What men or gods are these? what maidens 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; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; 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 For ever piping songs for ever new ; A burning forehead, and a parching Who are these coming to the sacrifice? What little town by river or sea-shore, Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede |