Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Ode to a Nightingale

My heart aches ,
and a drowsy numbness pains My perceive ,
as kilobytegh 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 the happy lot
- precisely cosmos too happy in thine happiness
,that thou, light- winged dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot Of beechen jet plane and shadows numberless
. Singest of summer in full-throated ease

O, for a draught of vintage ! that hath been cool offd a long age in dark delved earth
, tasting of flora and the country green
dance ! , and beçal song , and sunburnt mirth
, O for a beaker full of the warm south
full of the true , the red-faced hippocrene
, with beaded bubbles winking at the brim
And purple-stained mouth
that I ability drink , and leave the world unseen
and with thee fade away into the quality 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 mold and hear each other groan
, where palsy shakes a a few(prenominal) , 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 have it off pine at them beyond to-morrow

Away ! Away !

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for I will fly to thee
, not charioted by Bacchus and his pards
,but on the neutral wings of poesy
though the dull brain perplexes and retards
already with thee , concomitant is the night
and haply the queen-moon is on her throne
clusterd virtually by all her starry fays
,but here there is no light
save what from heaven is with the breeze blown through verdurous glooms and spin mossy ways .


I cannot see what flowers are at my feet ,
, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs
but , in embalmed darkness , understand each sweet wherewith the seasonable month endows
the grass , the brushwood , and the fruit tree wild ,
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