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While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstacy !
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 :
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 !
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
In the next valley-glades :
Fled is that music :-do I wake or sleep ?
ODE ON A GRECIAN URN.
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness !
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these ? What maidens loath ? What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape ?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstacy ?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal-yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair !
Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu ;
For ever piping songs for ever new ;
For ever panting and for ever young;
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice ?
To what green altar, 0 mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest ? What little town by river or sea-shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn ? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed ;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral ! 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 PSYCHE.
O GODDESS ! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, And pardon that thy secrets should be sung,
Even into thine own soft-couched ear : Surely I dreamt to day, or did I see
The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes ? I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly,
And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
In deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof
A brooklet, scarce espied :
Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,
Their arms embraced, and their pinions too ;
Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu,
The winged boy I knew ;
His Psyche true !
O latest-born and loveliest vision far
Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!
Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;
Nor altar heap'd with flowers ;
Upon the midnight hours;
From chain-swung censer teeming ;
Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,
Holy the air, the water, and the fire ;
Yet even in these days so far retired
From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,
Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
Upon the midnight hours ;
From swinged censer teeming :
Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
In some untrodden region of my mind,
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind : Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees
Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep ;
The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulld to sleep ;
With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same :
That shadowy thought can win,
To let the warm Love in !
EVER let the Fancy roam,
And the enjoying of the Spring