Music that brings sweet sleep down from the bliss ful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. II. Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, And utterly consumed with sharp distress, We only toil, who are the first of things, And make perpetual moan, Still from one sorrow to another thrown: Nor ever fold our wings, And cease from wanderings, Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm: Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, "There is no joy but calm!" Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things? III. Lo! in the middle of the wood, The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud Grows green and broad, and takes no care, Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow Falls, and floats adown the air. Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Drops in a silent autumn night. All its allotted length of days, The flower ripens in its place, Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. IV. Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. Death is the end of life; ah, why Should life all labour be? Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, In ever climbing up the climbing wave? All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence; ripen, fall and cease: Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dream ful ease. V. How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem Falling asleep in a half-dream! To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; To hear each other's whisper'd speech; Eating the Lotos day by day, To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, And tender curving lines of creamy spray; To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; Heap'd over with a mound of grass, Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass! VI. Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, And dear the last embraces of our wives And their warm tears: but all hath suffer'd change; For surely now our household hearths are cold: And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. Is there confusion in the little isle ? Let what is broken so remain. The Gods are hard to reconcile : "Tis hard to settle order once again. |