JOHN KEATS
There is not one,
No, no, not one But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid;
Thou art her mother,
And her brother, Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade.
��631 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 thy 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 Provengal song, and sunburnt mirth' O for a beaker full of the warm South ' Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrcne, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth,
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim.
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