Keats 3. Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed or ever piping songs for ever new; happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, ول For ever panting, and for ever young; 4. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? 5 30 To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, a And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea shore, 35 Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? 5. tell 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," that is all C 50 Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. ODE TO PSYCHE. O GODDESS! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, A brooklet, scarce espied : 'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed, And ready still past kisses to outnumber At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love : But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove? His Psyche true! O latest born and loveliest vision far Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy ! Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; ΤΟ 15 20 25 Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan No no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet From chain-swung censer teeming ; hrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. O brightest though too late for antique vows, Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane In some untrodden region of my mind, верад 330 35 40 Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep; A rosy sanctuary will I dress 55 With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain, With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, Who, breeding flowers, will never breed theme: And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, 60 65 TO AUTUMN. I. SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 333 With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells e With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. IO 2. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook ` 15 Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers : Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. 3. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft ; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. ODE ON MELANCHOLY. I. No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; Make not your rosary of yew-berries, کا 20 25 30 Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; For shade to shade will come too drowsily, ΙΟ 5 |