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Tasting of Flora and the country green,
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
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,
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, Clustered 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 embalmëd darkness, guess each sweet
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild: White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets covered up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
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, Called him soft names in many a musëd 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!
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 ofttimes hath
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
Forlorn! the very sound is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:-Do I wake or sleep!
SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes, like a gleaner, thou dost keep
Or by a cyder press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourne;
IN midst of all there lay a sleeping youth,
Stood serene cupids, watching silently,
One, kneeling to a lyre, touched the strings,
THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.
"TWAS in the prime of summer time,
An evening calm and cool, And four-and-twenty happy boys
Came bounding out of school:
There were some that ran, and some that leapt,
Like troutlets in a pool.
Away they sped with gamesome minds,
And souls untouched by sin,
To a level mead they came, and there
Over the town of Lynn.
Like sportive deer they coursed about,
Turning to mirth all things of earth,