My heart aches， and a drowsy¹ numbness² pains

    My sense， as though of hemlock³ 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 thy happiness，-

    That thou， light-winged Dryad of the trees，

    In some melodious⁴ plot

    Of beechen green， and shadows numberless，

    Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

    O for a draught⁵ of vintage， that hath been

    Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth，

    Tasting of Flora⁶ and the country-green，

    Dance， and Proven？al song， and sun-burnt mirth！

    O for a beaker full of the warm South，

    Full of the true， the blushful Hippocrene，

    With beaded bubbles winking⁷ 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 fret⁸

    Here， where men sit and hear each other groan⁹；

    Where palsy shakes a few， sad， last grey 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 lustrous¹⁰ 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 retards¹¹：

    Already with thee！ tender is the night，

    And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne，

    Cluster'd around by all her starry¹² Fays；

    But here there is no light，

    Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown

    Through verdurous glooms and winding¹³ mossy ways

    I cannot see what flowers are at my feet，

    Nor what soft incense¹⁴ hangs upon the boughs¹⁵，

    But， in embalmed¹⁶ darkness， guess each sweet

    Wherewith the seasonable month endows

    The grass， the thicket¹⁷， and the fruit-tree wild；

    White hawthorn¹⁸， and the pastoral eglantine；

    Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves；

    And mid-May's eldest¹⁹ child，

    The coming musk-rose， full of dewy wine，

    The murmurous²⁰ 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 mused²¹ 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 forth²² thy soul abroad

    In such an ecstasy²³！

    Still wouldst thou sing， and I have ears in vain-

    To thy high requiem²⁴ become a sod.

    Thou wast not born for death， immortal²⁵ 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 casements²⁶， opening on the foam²⁷

    Of perilous²⁸ seas， in faery lands forlorn.

    Forlorn！ the very word is like a bell

    To toll²⁹ 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 plaintive³⁰ anthem³¹ 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？

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