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Whose lip mature is ever new?
BARDS of Passion and of Mirth,
With the whisper of heaven's trees
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
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 ; And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook ; Or by a cider-press, with patient look, . 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.
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu ; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips : Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veild Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous
tongue Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN.
Souls of poets dead and gone,
I have heard that on a day
Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ?