JOHN KEATS

But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet

Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves;

And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen ; and 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, and 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 and 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 ofttimes 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!

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