The same that ofttimes hath
Charmd 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!
Adieu! the fancy
cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:do I wake or sleep?
THOU still unravishd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend
haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and
timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
to the sensual ear, but, more endeard,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees,
thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou
Though winning near the goalyet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
happy melodist, unweariàd,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
ever warm and still to be enjoyd,
For ever panting and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town,
thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can eer return.
O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity. Cold
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a
friend to man, to whom thou sayst,
Beauty is truth, truth beauty,that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye
need to know.
O GODDESS! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
By sweet enforcement and remembrance
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
Even into thine own soft-conchàd ear:
Surely I dreamd
to-day, or did I see
The wingàd Psyche with awakend eyes?
I wanderd in a forest thoughtlessly,
the sudden, fainting with surprise,
Saw two fair creatures, couchàd side by side
In deepest grass, beneath
the whispring roof
Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran
A brooklet, scarce espied:
cool-rooted flowers fragrant-eyed,
Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian
They lay calm-breathing on the
Their arms embracàd, and their pinions too;
Their lips touchd not, but had not bade adieu,
if disjoinàd by soft-handed slumber,
And ready still past kisses to outnumber
At tender eye-dawn of aurorean
The wingàd boy I knew;
But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
His Psyche true!
O latest-born and loveliest vision far
Of all Olympus faded hierarchy!
Fairer than Phbes sapphire-
Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
altar heapd with flowers;
Nor Virgin-choir to make delicious moan
Upon the midnight hours;
No voice, no
lute, no pipe, no incense sweet
From chain-swung censer teeming;
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no
Of pale-mouthd prophet dreaming.