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Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
Oh, sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; Every thing is spoilt by use : Where's the cheek that doth not fade, Too much gazed at ? Where's the maid Whose lip mature is ever new ? Where's the eye, however blue, Doth not weary? Where's the face One would meet in every place ? Where's the voice, however soft, One would hear so very oft ? At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. Let, then, winged Fancy find Thee a mistress to thy mind : Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter, Ere the God of Torment taught her How to frown and how to chide ; With a waist and with a side White as Hebe's, when her zone Slipt its golden clasp, and down Fell her kirtle to her feet, While she held the goblet sweet, And Jove grew languid.— Break the mesh Of the Fancy's silken leash; Quickly break her prison-string, And such joys as these she 'll bring. Let the winged Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home.
BARDS of Passion and of Mirth,
Thus ye live on high, and then On the earth ye live again ; And the souls ye left behind you Teach us, here, the way to find you, Where your other souls are joying, Never slumber'd, never cloying. Here, your earth-born souls still speak To mortals, of their little week; Of their sorrows and delights ; Of their passions and their spites ; Of their glory and their shame ; What doth strengthen and what maim. Thus ye teach us, every day, Wisdom, though fled far away.
Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth! Ye have souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new !
SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness !
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
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 on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers ;
Steady thy laden head across a brook ;
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, 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 hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
ODE ON MELANCHOLY.
No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine ;
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine ;
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Or on the wealth of globed peonies ;
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty-Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips :
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
SLEEP AND POETRY.
As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete
What is more gentle than a wind in summer ?
But what is higher beyond thought than thee?