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My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness,— That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained 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 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, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
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, Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, 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 mused 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, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! 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! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
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 fam'd 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?
My heart feels heavy, and a sleepy numbness hurts My senses, as if I had drunk a poisonous drink, Or taken some dull drug just a minute ago, And sunk towards forgetfulness: It's not because I envy your happy life, But because I'm too happy in your happiness— That you, light-winged spirit of the trees In a melodious place Of beech trees and countless shadows, Sing of summer with full-throated ease.
Oh, for a drink of wine! that has been Cooled for a long time in the deep earth, Tasting of flowers and the countryside, Dance, and songs from Provence, and joyful laughter! Oh, for a cup full of the warm South, Full of the true, blushing fountain of inspiration, With bubbles winking at the edge, And a purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with you fade away into the dim forest:
Fade far away, dissolve, and completely forget What you among the leaves have never known, The weariness, the fever, and the worry Here, where people sit and hear each other groan; Where trembling shakes a few sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, thin as a ghost, and dies; Where just to think is to be full of sorrow And heavy-eyed despair, Where Beauty cannot keep her bright eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond tomorrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to you, Not carried by Bacchus and his leopards, But on the invisible wings of Poetry, Though the dull brain confuses and slows: Already with you! tender is the night, And perhaps the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Surrounded by all her starry fairies; But here there is no light, Except what from heaven is blown with the breezes Through green shadows and winding mossy paths.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft scent hangs upon the branches, But, in perfumed darkness, guess each sweet With which the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the wild fruit-tree; White hawthorn, and the pastoral sweetbriar; Fast fading violets covered up in leaves; And mid-May's first child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmuring haunt of flies on summer evenings.
In the dark I listen; and, many times I have been half in love with peaceful Death, Called him soft names in many thoughtful rhymes, To take my quiet breath into the air; Now more than ever it seems rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While you are pouring forth your soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still you would sing, and I would have ears in vain— To your high requiem become a piece of earth.
You were not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread you down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, homesick, She stood in tears among the foreign corn; The same that often has Charmed magic windows, opening on the foam Of dangerous seas, in fairy lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from you to my lonely self! Goodbye! the imagination cannot deceive so well As it is famed to do, deceiving elf. Goodbye! goodbye! your sad song fades Past the nearby meadows, over the still stream, Up the hillside; and now it's buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?