Ode to a Nightingale - Ben Whishaw

Disclaimer: I do not own the sound nor the photo in the video.

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 thine 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.

O for a draught of vintage! That hath been
Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth
O for a beaker full of the warm south!
Full of the true, the blushful hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and specter-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
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 poesy
though the dull brain perplexes and retards
already with thee , tender is the night
and haply the queen-moon is on her throne
cluster'd around by all her starry fays
,but here there is no light
save what from heaven is with the breeze blown through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways .



I cannot see what flowers are at my feet ,
, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs
but , in embalmed darkness , guess each sweet wherewith the seasonable month endows
the grass , the thicket , and the fruit tree wild ,
white hawthorn , and the pastoral eglantine
, fast fading violets , cover'd up in leaves
, and mid may's eldest child
the coming musk rose , full of dewy wine
the murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves

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 aboard
In such an ecstasy
-still wouldst thou sing , and I have ears in vain
to thy high requiem become a sod

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
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

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 fam'd 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 ?