---

John Keats - Ode On Indolence
Work rating: Low

1.
One morn before me were three figures seen,
     I With bowed necks, and joined hands, side-faced;
And one behind the other stepp`d serene,
     In placid sandals, and in white robes graced;
They pass`d, like figures on a marble urn,
     When shifted round to see the other side;
          They came again; as when the urn once more
Is shifted round, the first seen shades return;
     And they were strange to me, as may betide
          With vases, to one deep in Phidian lore.

2.
How is it, Shadows! that I knew ye not?
     How came ye muffled in so hush a masque?
Was it a silent deep-disguised plot
     To steal away, and leave without a task
My idle days? Ripe was the drowsy hour;
     The blissful cloud of summer-indolence
          Benumb`d my eyes; my pulse grew less and less;
Pain had no sting, and pleasure`s wreath no flower:
     O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense
          Unhaunted quite of all but—-nothingness?

3.
A third time came they by;—-alas! wherefore?
     My sleep had been embroider`d with dim dreams;
My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o`er
     With flowers, and stirring shades, and baffled beams:
The morn was clouded, but no shower fell,
     Tho` in her lids hung the sweet tears of May;
          The open casement press`d a new-leav`d vine,
Let in the budding warmth and throstle`s lay;
     O Shadows! `twas a time to bid farewell!
          Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine.

4.
A third time pass`d they by, and, passing, turn`d
     Each one the face a moment whiles to me;
Then faded, and to follow them I burn`d
     And ached for wings, because I knew the three;
The first was a fair maid, and Love her name;
     The second was Ambition, pale of cheek,
          And ever watchful with fatigued eye;
The last, whom I love more, the more of blame
     Is heap`d upon her, maiden most unmeek,—-
          I knew to be my demon Poesy.

5.
They faded, and, forsooth! I wanted wings:
     O folly! What is Love! and where is it?
And for that poor Ambition—-it springs
     From a man`s little heart`s short fever-fit;
For Poesy!—-no,—-she has not a joy,—-
     At least for me,—-so sweet as drowsy noons,
          And evenings steep`d in honied indolence;
O, for an age so shelter`d from annoy,
     That I may never know how change the moons,
          Or hear the voice of busy common-sense!

6.
So, ye three Ghosts, adieu! Ye cannot raise
     My head cool-bedded in the flowery grass;
For I would not be dieted with praise,
     A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce!
Fade sofdy from my eyes, and be once more
     In masque-like figures on the dreamy urn;
          Farewell! I yet have visions for the night,
And for the day faint visions there is store;
     Vanish, ye Phantoms! from my idle spright,
          Into the clouds, and never more return!
Source
The script ran 0.003 seconds.