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To a nightingale by john keats. My heart aches and a drowsy numbness pains. My my sense as though of hemlock.
I had drunk or emptied some dull opiate to drains one minute past and lethe woods had sunk. It is not through envy of thy. Happy lot.
But being too happy in thine happiness that thou light wing a dryad of the trees in some melodious plot of beach in green and shadows numberless singer stuv summer in full throated ease. Oh for a draught of vintage. That has been cooled a long age in the deep delved earth.
Tasting of flora and the country green dance and provence all song and sunburnt mirth. Oh. For a beaker full of the warm south full of the true.
The blushful hippocrene with beaded bubbles winking at the brim and purple stained mouths. That i might drink and leave the world unseen and with thee fade away into the forest dim fade far away dissolve and quite forget what thou among the leaves has never known the weariness. The fever and the friend here where men sit and hear each other groan where palsy shakes a few sad last gray hairs.
Where youth grows pale and spectre thin and dies.
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow and lenni despair. Where beauty cannot keep a lustrous eyes or new love pine at them beyond tomorrow. A way away for i will fly to thee not chariot advised and his paths.
But on the viewless wings of power. See though the dull brain perplexes and retards already with the tender is the night and happily the queen moon is on her throne clustered around by all her starry phase. But here.
There is no light save from what heaven is with the breezes blown through ver juris 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 where with the seasonable month in douse. The grass.
The thicket and the fruit tree wild white hawthorn and that pastoral eglantine. Fast fading. Violets covered up in leaves.
And amid maze.
Eldest. Child. The coming musk rose full of juhi.
Why the murmurous horn. Too flies on summer eaves 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 bren 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 asad thou was 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 the path through the sad heart of ruth when sick for home. She stood in tears amid the alien corn the same that oft times have charmed magic casements opening on the foam of perilous seas in fairy lands forlorn forlorn the very word is like a bell to toll me back from thee to my soul self add you the fancy cannot cheat so well. As she is famed to do deceiving l.
Add you add you 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 for more classic poetry read. In accent. Please visit wwwgficom.
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