JOHN KEATS

Come then, Sorrow,

Sweetest Sorrow ! Like an own babe I nurse thee on rny breast

I thought to leave thee,

And deceive thee, But now of all the world I love thee best.

There is not one,

No, no, not one But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid;

Thou art her mother,

And her brother, Her phymate, and her wooer in the shade.

��624. Ode to a Nightingale

JV/TY 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 Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,

Tasting of Flora and the country-green,

Dance, and Proven9al song, and sunburnt mirth !

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