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作词 : John Keats |
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My heart aches,and a drowsy numbness pains |
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My sense,as though of hemlock I had drunk, |
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Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains |
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One minute past,and Lethe-wards had sunk: |
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'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, |
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But being too happy in thine happiness -- |
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That thou,light winged Dryad of the trees, |
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In some melodious plot |
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Of beechen green,and shadows numberless, |
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Singest of summer in full-throated ease. |
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O,for a draught of vintage!that hath been |
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Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, |
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Tasting of Flora and the country green, |
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Dance,and Provencal song,and sunburnt mirth! |
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O for a beaker full of the warm South, |
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Full of the true,the blushful Hippocrene, |
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With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, |
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And purple-stained mouth, |
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That I may drink,and leave the world unseen, |
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And with thee fade away into the forest dim. |
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Fade far away,dissolve,and quite forget |
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What thou amongst the leaves hast never known, |
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The weariness,the fever,and the fret |
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Here,where men sit and hear each other groan; |
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Where palsy shakes a few,sad,last grey hairs. |
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Where youth grows pale,and spectre-thin,and dies; |
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Where nut to think is to be full of sorrow |
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And leaden-eyed despairs; |
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Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, |
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Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. |
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Away!away!for I will fly to thee, |
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Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, |
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But on the viewless wings of Poesy, |
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Though the dull brain perplexes and retards. |
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Already with thee!tender is the night, |
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And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, |
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Clustered around by all her starry Fays; |
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But here there is no light, |
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Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown |
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Through verduous glooms and winding mossy ways. |
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I cannot se what flowers are at my feet, |
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Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, |
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But,in embalmed darkness,guess each sweet |
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Wherewith the seasonable month endows |
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The grass,the thicket,and the fruit-tree wild -- |
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White hawthorn,and the pastoral eglantine; |
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Fast fading violets covered up in leaves; |
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And mid-May's eldest child, |
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The coming musk-rose,full of dewy wine, |
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The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. |
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Darkling I listen;and for many a time |
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I have been half in love with easeful Death, |
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Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, |
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To take into the air my quiet breath; |
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Now more than ever seems it rich to die, |
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To cease upon the midnight with no pain, |
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While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad |
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In such an ecstasy! |
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Still wouldst thou sing,and I have ears in vain -- |
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To thy high requiem become a sod. |
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Thou wast not born for death,immortal Bird! |
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No hungry generations tread thee down; |
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The voice I hear this passing night eas heard |
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In ancient days by emperor and clown: |
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Perhaps the self-same song that found a path |
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Through the sad heart of Ruth,when,sick for home, |
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She stood in tears amid the alien corn; |
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The same that oft-times hath |
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Charmed magic casements,opening on the foam |
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Of perilous seas,in faery lands forlorn. |
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Forlorn!the very word is like a bell |
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To toll me back from thee to my sole self! |
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Adieu!the fancy cannot cheat so well |
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As she is famed to do,deceiving elf. |
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Adieu!adieu!thy plaintive anthem fades |
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Past the near meadows,over the still stream, |
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Up the hill-side;and now 'tis buried deep |
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In the next valley-glades: |
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Was it a vision,or a waking dream? |
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Fled is that music --Do I wake or sleep? |
