ws numberless,
Singest of summer in full-ted ease.
O, for a draugage! t h been
Coold a long age in th,
tasting of Flora and try green,
Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of th,
Full of true, the blushful hippocrene,
it the brim,
And purple-stained mouth
t I mighe world unseen,
And o t dim
Fade far ae forget
t never known,
t
and her groan;
gray hairs,
re-thin, and dies;
to to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
y cannot keep rous eyes,
Or ne to-morrow.
Ao thee,
Not ced by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
tards
Already ender is t,
And hrone,
Clusterd around by all arry Fays;
But ,
Save w from he breezes blown
through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see my feet,
Nor incense he boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess eac
h endows
t, and t-tree wild;
e oral eglantine;
Fast fading violets coverd up in leaves;
And mid-Mays eldest child,
the coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
t of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I h,
Calld names in many a mused rhyme,
to take into t breath;
No rico die,
to cease upon t h no pain,
pouring forthy soul abroad
In sucasy!
Still thou sing, and I have ears in vain--
to thy high requiem become a sod.
t not born for deatal Bird!
No ions tread thee down;
t was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Per found a path
t of Ruth, when, sick for home,
Sood in tears amid the alien corn;
t oft-times h
Cs, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell