John Keats: Ode to a Nightingale
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Ode to a Nightingale

1795-1821


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 thine happiness,
         That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
         In some melodious plot
         Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
         Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O for a draught of vintage! that hath been
         Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
         Dance, and Proven├žal 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-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 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 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 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.

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;
         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.

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;
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.

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 ofttimes hath
         Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
         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! the fancy cannot cheat so well
         As she is famed 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?


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