My heart aches, and numbness pains
My sense,
One minute passed:
Not through envy of thy happy,
But being too happy in happiness,
That thou, Dryad
In some plot,
Of trees, and shadows,
Singest of summer.

O, for vintage! that hath been
Cooled an age by earth,
Tasting of country,
Dance, and song, and mirth!
O for a beaker full of the South,
Full of the Hippocrene,
With bubbles at the brim,
And stained mouth;
That I drink and leave,
And with thee fade into forest:

Fade away, solve, and forget,
What thou has never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret,
Where men hear each other,
Where palsy shakes last hairs,
Where youth ages and dies,
Where to think is sorrow,
And despair,
Where beauty can not keep her eyes,
Or Love pine them to-morrow.

Away! Away! For I will fly to thee,
Not charioted,
But on wings,
Though the brain perplexes:
Alright with thee! tender is the night,
The Moon-Queen on her throne,
Clustered by her Fays;
But there is no light,
Save what the breezes blown,
Through glooms and ways.

I cannot see what is at my feet,
Nor what hangs upon the boughs,
But, in darkness, guess each,
Wherewith the month endows,
The grass, the thicket, and the wild,
Hawthorn, and eglantine,
Violets, covered in leaves,
And May's child,
The musk-rose,
The haunt of flies on summer eves.

Dark I listen, for many a time,
Half in love with Death,
Called name in a rhyme,
In to the air, my breath;
Now more than ever it seems to die,
Upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pour thy soul abroad,
In such an ecstasy!
Still woulds't though sing, have ears in vain,
To thy become a sod.

Not born for death, immortal bird!
No generation tread the down,
The voice I heard this night, heard
By emperor and clown,
The song that found a path
Through the heart of Ruth, sick for home,
Stood in tears amid the corn,
The same that hath
Charmed casements, opening for the foam,
Of seas in faery lands.

Forlorn!
To toll back from me myself,
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well,
As she is fam'd to do,
Adieu! Adieu! thy anthem fades,
Past the meadow, over the stream,
Up the hill and buried,
In the valley;
Was it a vision, or a dream?
Fled is that music; Do I wake or sleep?