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Let in the budding warmth and throstle's lay;
O Shadows! 'twas a time to bid farewell!
Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine.
So, ye three Ghosts, adieu! Ye cannot raise
My head cool-bedded in the flowery
For I would not be dieted with praise,
In masque-like Figures on the dreamy
Farewell! I yet have visions for the night,
And for the day faint visions there is store;
Vanish, ye Phantoms! from my idle spright.
Into the clouds, and never more re-
BARDS of Passion and of Mirth,
Brows'd by none but Dian's fawns;
Thus ye live on high, and then On the earth ye live again; And the souls ye left behind you Teach us, here, the way to find you, Where your other souls are joying, Never sumber'd, never cloying. Here, your earth-born souls still speak To mortals, of their little week;
Of their sorrows and delights;
Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth! Ye have souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new!
ODE TO PSYCHE
O GODDESS! hear these tuneless ram bers, wrung
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
And pardon that thy secrets should be
Even into thine own soft-conched ear; Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see
The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes?
I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, [side Saw two fair creatures, couched side by In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof
Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran
A brooklet, scarce espied: 'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,
Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, They lay calm-breathing on the bedded
Their arms embraced, and their pinions too;
Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu,
As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,
His Psyche true!
O latest born and loveliest vision far Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy! Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star, [sky;
Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
Nor altar heap'd 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 heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
O brightest ! though too late for antique
Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,
When holy were the haunted forest boughs,
Holy the air, the water, and the fire; Yet even in these days so far retir'd
From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.
From swinged censer teeming ; Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. 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,
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:
Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees
Fledge the wild-ridged mountains
steep by steep;
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,
The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to
And in the midst of this wide quietness
With buds, and bells, and stars with-
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,
Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same: [light And there shall be for thee all soft de
That shadowy thought can win,
A bright torch, and a casement ope at
To let the warm Love in!
April, 1819. 1820.
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
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 kiss
Though winning near the goal-yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new ; More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious
Conspiring with him how to load and
With fruit the vines that round the
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
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
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook ; Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too.
While barred clouds bloom the softdying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue:
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
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 [croft; The red-breast whistles from a gardenAnd gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
September, 1819. 1820.
DEEP in the shady sadness of a vale
Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star,
Sat gray-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone, Still as the silence round about his lair; Forest on forest hung about his head Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there,
Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass,
But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more
By reason of his fallen divinity Spreading a shade: the Naiad 'mid her reeds
Press'd her cold finger closer to her lips.
Along the margin-sand large footmarks went,
No further than to where his feet had stray'd,
And slept there since.
Upon the sodden
His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead,
Unsceptred and his realmless eyes were closed;
While his bow'd head seem'd list'ning to the Earth,
His ancient mother, for some comfort yet.
It seem'd no force could wake him from his place;
But there came one, who with a kindred hand
Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bending low
With reverence, though to one who knew it not.
She was a Goddess of the infant world;
Achilles by the hair and bent his neck; Or with a finger stay'd Ixion's wheel. Her face was large as that of Memphian
Pedestal'd haply in a palace court,