Ode to a Nightingale My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: ‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness,— That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!— O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the wine of life, and summer’s mirth!
This house hath been a long time a grave, And its dark corners echo like the voids, Through which nothing human will ever save. Life, amidst beauty, weaves the fates she avoids.
Eagerly, standing amidst the quiet trees, I hold my breath to hear that true song start, She breaks the lot in resurrections, yes, the glees… Oh, lonely nights, we are never truly apart.
- John Keats