Life's early cup with such a draught of woe? But what was howling in one breast alone, Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame! Thou noteless blot on a remembered name! Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow, He is secure, and now can never mourn A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain; Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn, 359 With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. He lives, he wakes - 'tis Death is dead, not he; - Thou young Mourn not for Adonais. Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee The spirit thou lamentest is not gone; 366 Which like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst thrown O'er the abandoned Earth, now leave it bare Even to the joyous stars which smile on its despair! Darkling I listen; and, for many a time 50 I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 55 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. 60 Thou wast 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 a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 66 She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 70 |
