Page:Keats, poems published in 1820 (Robertson, 1909).djvu/138

5.

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 endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
⁠White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
⁠Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
⁠And mid-May's eldest child,
⁠The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
⁠The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.50

6.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time

⁠I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
⁠To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,