"They toil not, neither do they spin.”


One morn before me were three figures seen,
     With bowèd necks, and joinèd 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.

How is it, Shadows! that I knew ye not?
      How came ye muffled in so hush a mask?
Was it a silent deep-disguisèd 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?

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 fatiguèd 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.
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 honey’d 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!

And once more 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-leaved 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.

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!