O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,”—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, And purple-stainèd 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 amongst 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, 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, 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, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 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 Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain- Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 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. Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:-Do I wake or sleep? LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI BALLAD O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms, The sedge has wither'd from the lake, O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done. I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever dew, Fast withereth too. I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful-a faery's child, I made a garland for her head, I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long. For sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery's song. She found me roots of relish sweet, And sure in language strange she said- She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore, And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four. And there she lullèd me asleep, And there I dream'd-Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dream'd On the cold hill's side. I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried "La Belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!" I saw their starv'd lips in the gloom, And this is why I sojourn here, Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake BRIGHT STAR BRIGHT star! would I were steadfast as thou art Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, Of snow upon the mountains and the moors— Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY [1792-1822] MUSIC, WHEN SOFT VOICES DIE MUSIC, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, |