74 
THE LUPINE. 
ILLUSTRATION OP THE SENTIMENT. 
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. 
Darkling I listen; and for many a time 
I have been half in love with easeful death, 
Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 
To take into the air my quiet breath ; 
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 ecstacy! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—- 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 
Keats. 
* The nightingale. 
