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Keats, John


Ode On Melancholy

                                   I
          NO, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
            Wolfs-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
          Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
            By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
          Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
            Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
              Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
          A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
            For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
              And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

                                   II
          But when the melancholy fit shall fall
            Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
          That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
            And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
          Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
            Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
              Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
          Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
            Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
              And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

                                   III
          She dwells with Beauty--Beauty that must die;
            And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
          Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
            Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
          Ay, in the very temple of Delight
            Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
              Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
          Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
            His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
              And be among her cloudy trophies hung.


----------------------------------------

La Belle Dame Sance Merci


1.
O, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

2.
O, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

3.
I see a lilly on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

4.
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful-- a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

5.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look'd at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

6.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.

7.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said--
"I love thee true."

8.
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sigh'd full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

9.
And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dream'd-- Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream'd
On the cold hill side.

10.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried-- "La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!"

11.
I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.

12.
And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge has wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.






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