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 bom for death, immortal Bird 1 



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 ofttimes hath 

 Chami'd 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 hill-side ; 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 ? 



KEATS. 



