The voice I hear this passing night was heard Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self. Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:- do I wake or sleep? ODE ON A GRECIAN URN THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness, A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 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 For ever piping songs for ever new; Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede 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," Ye know on earth, and all ye that is all need to know. JOHN KEATS. LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI O WHAT can ail thee, Knight at arms, The sedge has withered from the Lake, O what can ail thee, Knight at arms, And the harvest's done. I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew; Fast withereth too I met a Lady in the Meads Full beautiful—a faery's child; I made a Garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant Zone; I set her on my pacing steed, She found me roots of relish sweet, She took me to her elfin grot And there she wept and sigh'd full sore; And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four. And there she lulled me asleep, And there I dream'd Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dreamt, On the cold hill's side. I saw pale Kings, and Princes too, Pale warriors-death pale were they all; They cried, "La belle dame sans merci Thee hath in thrall!" I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam, And I awoke, and found me here On the cold hill's side. And this is why I sojourn here, Though the sedge is withered from the Lake, JOHN KEATS. ULYSSES Ir little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy'd Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades How dull it is to pause, to make an end, |