влад And still In poverty, hunger, & dist a voice of dolorous dolorous putes, sary this song of the Sheit! Mr. Hors I was Ever thus ! _ Euch hour that came, Still moremitting, bought. Some newer form of guif or shame, дис Some newer Care for thought. Written in the spring of 1819, when suffering from physical depression, the precursor of his death, which happened soon after. My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, O for a draught of vintage, that hath been O for a beaker full of the warm South, That I might drink, and leave the world un seen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; SAD IS OUR YOUTH, FOR IT IS EVER 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, 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, THE SUN IS WARM, THE SKY IS CLEAR. STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES. THE sun is warm, the sky is clear, The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods', Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's. But in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, eves. Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death. Called 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, 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! She stood in tears amid the alien corn; Charmed 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 famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hillside; and now 't is buried deep In the next valley-glades : Was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music:- do I wake or sleep? JOHN KEATS. I see the Deep's untrampled floor With green and purple sea-weeds strown ; I see the waves upon the shore Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown : I sit upon the sands alone; The lightning of the noontide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion, How sweet, did any heart now share in my emotion ! Alas! I have nor hope nor health, And walked with inward glory crowned, Yet now despair itself is mild Even as the winds and waters are; I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear, Till death like sleep might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. PERCY BYSSHE SHElley. ROSALIE. O, POUR upon my soul again That sad, unearthly strain That seems from other worlds to 'plain! As if some melancholy star |