Ode To A Nightingale
(专辑: Thirteen Ways To Look At Birds - 2019)
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 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-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 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 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 oft-times 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 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?