Up the hill-side; and now 't is buried deep Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music : - Do I wake or sleep? ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. 80 I. 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? 5 ΙΟ 2. Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, 15 20 5 3. Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed For ever piping songs for ever new; For ever panting, and for ever young; 4. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? 5. O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral ! 45 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 Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. ODE TO PSYCHE. O GODDESS! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes? I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof 'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed, Their arms embraced, and their pinions too; As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love : The winged boy I knew ; But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove? O latest born and loveliest vision far Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy ! Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, Upon the midnight hours; 30 No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet From chain-swung censer teeming ; No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. O brightest though too late for antique vows, I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. 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, Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep; 35 40 45 59 50 55 With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain, 60 With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, Who, breeding flowers, will never breed the same : And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, TO AUTUMN. I. SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 65 With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; 5 To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 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. 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 IO 15 |