Ode to a Nightingale By John Keats

To join this community on Patreon:⁠⁠https://www.patreon.com/cw/welcome2thepoetrypodcast⁠⁠My heart aches, & a drowsy numbness pains         My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains         One minute past, & Lethe-wards had sunk:'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,         But being too happy in thine happiness,—                That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees                        In some melodious plot         Of beechen green, & shadows numberless,                Singest of summer in full-throated ease.O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been         Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,Tasting of Flora & the country green,         Dance, & Provençal song, & sunburnt mirth!O for a beaker full of the warm South,         Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,                With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,                        & purple-stained mouth;         That I might drink, & leave the world unseen,                & with thee fade away into the forest dim:Fade far away, dissolve, & quite forget         What thou among the leaves hast never known,The weariness, the fever, & the fret         Here, where men sit & hear each other groan;Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,         Where youth grows pale, & spectre-thin, & dies;                Where but to think is to be full of sorrow                        & 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 & his pards,But on the viewless wings of Poesy,         Though the dull brain perplexes & retards:Already with thee! tender is the night,         & haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,                Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;                        But here there is no light,         Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown                Through verdurous glooms & winding mossy ways.I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,         Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet         Wherewith the seasonable month endowsThe grass, the thicket, & the fruit-tree wild;         White hawthorn, & the pastoral eglantine;                Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;                        & mid-May's eldest child,         The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,                The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.Darkling I listen; &, for many a time         I have been half in love with easeful Death,Call'd him soft names in many a mused 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, & I have ears in vain—                   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 & clown:Perhaps the self-same song that found a path         Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,                She stood in tears amid the alien corn;                        The same that oft-times hath         Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam                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!Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well         As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades         Past the near meadows, over the still stream,                Up the hill-side; & now 'tis buried deep                        In the next valley-glades:         Was it a vision, or a waking dream?                Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?