Ode On Indolence

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!