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NOTE AI-generated transcript (Transcript Pack by Rowan Vale)

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ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE by John Keats

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My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense,

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As though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains

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One minute past, and lethwards had sunk.

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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 beech and green and shadows numberless, singest of summer in full-throated ease.

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Oh, for a draught of vintage that hath been cooled a long age in the deep delved earth,

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Tasting of flora and the country green, dance and provincial song and sunburnt mirth!

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Oh, for a beaker full of the warm south, full of the true, the blushful hippocrene, with

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with beaded bubbles winking at the brim and purple-stained mouth,

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that I might drink and leave the world unseen,

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and with thee fade away into the forest dim,

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Fade far away, dissolve and quite forget

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What thou among the leaves hast never known.

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The weariness, the fever, and the fret here,

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Where men sit and hear each other groan,

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Where palsy shakes a few sad last grey hairs,

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Where youth grows pale and spectre thin and dies,

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Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

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And leaden eye despairs,

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where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes or new love pine at them beyond to-morrow away away for i will fly to thee not charioted by bacchus and his pards but on the viewless wings of posy though the dull brain perplexes and retards already with thee

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Tender is the night, and haply the queen moon is on her throne, clustered around by all her starry fays.

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But here there is no light, save what from heaven is with the breezes blown through vertuous glooms and winding mossy ways.

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I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,

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But, in embalmed darkness, Guess each sweet wherewith

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The seasonable month endows the grass, The thicket, and the fruit-tree wild.

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White Hawthorne

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and the pastoral eglantine, fast-fading violets covered up in leaves,

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and mid-May's eldest child, the coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,

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the murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

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Darkling, I listen, and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful death,

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called him soft names in many amused rhyme,

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To take into the air

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My quiet breath

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Now more than ever seems it rich to die

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To cease upon the midnight

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With no pain

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While thou art pouring forth thy soul

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Abroad in such an ecstasy

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still wouldst thou sing and i have ears in vain to thy high requiem become a sod

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thou wast not born for death immortal bird no hungry generations tread thee down

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the voice i hear this passing night was heard in ancient days by emperor and clown

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Perhaps the selfsame song that found a path through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick

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for home, she stood in tears, amid the alien corn.

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The same that oft-times hath charmed magic casements, opening on the foam of perilous

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seas, in fairylands forlorn.

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FORLORN.

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The very word is like a bell to toll me back from thee to my sole self.

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Adieu.

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The fancy cannot cheat so well as she is famed to do deceiving elf.

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Adieu, adieu.

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Thy plaintive anthem fades past the near meadows,

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Over the still stream, up the hillside,

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And now tis buried deep in the next valley glades.

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Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

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fled is that music do i wake or sleep