Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
  Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
  Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: 
Already with thee! tender is the night,
  And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
    Clustered around by all her starry Fays;
      But here there is no light,
  Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
  Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
  Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
  But in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
  Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
  White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
    Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;
      And mid-May’s eldest child,
  The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
    The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 
Darkling I listen; and for many a time
  I have been half in love with easeful Death. 
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
  To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now, more than ever, seems it rich to die,
  To cease upon the midnight, with no pain. 
    While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad,
      In such an ecstasy!—­
  Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—­
    To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! 
  No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
  In ancient days by emperor and clown: 
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
  Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
  She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
      The same that oft-times hath
  Charmed magic casements opening on the foam
    Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell,
  To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 
Adieu! the Fancy cannot cheat so well
  As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
  Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
    Up the hillside; and now ’tis buried deep
      In the next valley-glades: 
  Was it a vision or a waking dream? 
    Fled is that music:—­do I wake or sleep?

JOHN KEATS.

PERISHED.

     CATSKILL MOUNTAIN HOUSE.

Wave after wave of greenness rolling down
From mountain top to base, a whispering sea
Of affluent leaves through which the viewless breeze
  Murmurs mysteriously.

And towering up amid the lesser throng,
A giant oak, so desolately grand,
Stretches its gray imploring arms to heaven
  In agonized demand.

Smitten by lightning from a summer sky,
Or bearing in its heart a slow decay,
What matter, since inexorable fate
  Is pitiless to slay.