Ode on Indolence E-book

                                      1819

                                ODE ON INDOLENCE

                                 by John Keats








Electronically Enhanced Text (c) Copyright 1996, World Library(R)



                    ODE ON INDOLENCE
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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,
          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.
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                         II.
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        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?
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                        III.
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        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,
          Though 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.
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                         IV.
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        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 ach'd 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.
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                          V.
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        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!
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                         VI.
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        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 softly 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!
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                        THE END