Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/774

 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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