My Heart Aches, and a Drowsy Numbness Pains My Sense, as Though of Hemlock I Had Drunk, or Emptied Some Dull Opiate to the Drains One Minute Past, and Lethe-Wards Had Sunk: 'Tis Not Through Envy of Thy Happy Lot,
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness,—- That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
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 tomorrow.
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, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Clustered around by all her starry fays; But here there is no light, 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, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness,—- That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
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 tomorrow.
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, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Clustered around by all her starry fays; But here there is no light, 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, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,