87 lines
3.5 KiB
Plaintext
87 lines
3.5 KiB
Plaintext
1816
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ODE ON INDOLENCE
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by John Keats
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They toil not, neither do they spin.
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I.
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One morn before me were three figures seen,
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With bowed necks, and joined hands, side-faced;
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And one behind the other stepp'd serene,
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In placid sandals, and in white robes graced;
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They pass'd, like figures on a marble urn
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When shifted round to see the other side;
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They came again, as, when the urn once more
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Is shifted round, the first seen shades return;
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And they were strange to me, as may betide
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With vases, to one deep in Phidian lore.
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II.
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How is it, Shadows! that I knew ye not?
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How came ye muffled in so hush a masque?
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Was it a silent deep-disguised plot
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To steal away, and leave without a task
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My idle days? Ripe was the drowsy hour;
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The blissful cloud of summer-indolence
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Benumb'd my eyes; my pulse grew less and less;
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Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath no flower:
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O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense
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Unhaunted quite of all but-nothingness?
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III.
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A third time came they by;- alas! wherefore?
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My sleep had been embroider'd with dim dreams;
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My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o'er
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With flowers, and stirring shades, and baffled beams:
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The morn was clouded, but no shower fell,
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Though in her lids hung the sweet tears of May;
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The open casement press'd a new-leav'd vine,
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Let in the budding warmth and throstle's lay;
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O Shadows! 'twas a time to bid farewell!
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Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine.
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IV.
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A third time pass'd they by, and, passing, turn'd
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Each one the face a moment whiles to me;
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Then faded, and to follow them I burn'd
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And ach'd for wings because I knew the three;
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The first was a fair Maid, and Love her name;
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The second was Ambition, pale of cheek,
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And ever watchful with fatigued eye;
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The last, whom I love more, the more of blame
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Is heap'd upon her, maiden most unmeek,-
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I knew to be my demon Poesy.
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V.
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They faded, and, forsooth! I wanted wings:
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O folly! What is love! and where is it?
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And for that poor Ambition! it springs
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From a man's little heart's short fever-fit;
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For Poesy!- no,- she has not a joy,-
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At least for me,- so sweet as drowsy noons,
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And evenings steep'd in honied indolence;
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O, for an age so shelter'd from annoy,
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That I may never know how change the moons,
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Or hear the voice of busy common-sense!
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VI.
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So, ye three Ghosts, adieu! Ye cannot raise
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My head cool-bedded in the flowery grass;
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For I would not be dieted with praise,
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A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce!
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Fade softly from my eyes, and be once more
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In masque-like figures on the dreamy urn;
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Farewell! I yet have visions for the night,
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And for the day faint visions there is store;
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Vanish, ye Phantoms! from my idle spright,
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Into the clouds, and never more return!
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THE END
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