（南丁格尔之诗）

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 fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan⁸;
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 lustrous⁹ 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 retards¹⁰:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry¹¹ Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding¹² mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense¹³ hangs upon the boughs¹⁴,
But, in embalmed¹⁵ darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket¹⁶, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn¹⁷, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest¹⁸ child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous¹⁹ 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 mused²⁰ 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 forth²¹ thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy²²!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain
To thy high requiem²³ become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal²⁴ 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 casements²⁵, opening on the foam
Of perilous²⁶ seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll²⁷ 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 plaintive²⁸ anthem²⁹ 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?