Ode
to a Nightingale
by John
Keats
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1 |
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 thy happiness, - |
That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees, |
In some melodious plot |
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, |
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
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2 |
O for a draught of vintage ! that hath been |
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvèd 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-stainèd mouth ; |
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, |
And with thee fade away into the forest dim :
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3 |
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 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 lustrous eyes, |
Or new Love pine at them beyond tomorrow.
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4 |
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.
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5 |
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, |
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, |
But, in embalmèd 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.
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6 |
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 musèd 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.
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7 |
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.
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8 |
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? |
John Keats | Classic
Poems |
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[ La Belle Dame Sans Merci ] [ Ode to a Nightingale ] [ Ode on a Grecian Urn ] [ Ode on Indolence ] [ Ode to Psyche ] [ Ode on Melancholy ] [ Ode to autumn ] |