That thou, light-winged Dryad of the Away! away! for I will fly to thee, 30 Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. V I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month en dows pain, While thou art pouring forth thy LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN Souls of Poets dead and gone, I have heard that on a day And pledging with contented smack ΤΟ 20 |