John Keats

Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I read more

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.

And shade the violets,
That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.

And shade the violets,
That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.

Where the nightingale doth sing
Not a senseless, tranced thing,
But divine melodious truth.

Where the nightingale doth sing
Not a senseless, tranced thing,
But divine melodious truth.

Through the dancing poppies stole
A breeze most softly lulling to my soul.

Through the dancing poppies stole
A breeze most softly lulling to my soul.

And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon.

And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon.