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Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or in a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hc ok Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers : And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy bue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly boarn ,
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft ;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies
TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock 1 had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
0, for a draught of vintage ! that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green;
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
And purple-stained mouth;
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 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,
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:
And haply the Queen-moon is on her throne,
But here there is no light,
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The murmurous 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 mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
To thy high requiem become a sod.
No hungry generations tread thee down;
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
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn,
Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades
In the next valley-glades:
Fled is that music :-Do I wake or sleep!
No! those days are gone away,
No, the bugle sounds no more,