Every frame of the film is picturesque
Ending recitation
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot
But being too happy in thine happiness --, but being too happy in thine happiness --
That thou, light winged Dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot, you, light-winged fairy
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, you hide in beechen green and shadows
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been, alas, if there is a sip of wine, refrigerate
Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth
Tasting of Flora and the country green, a taste reminiscent of the country green
Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth! Think of the flower god, love song, sunshine and dance
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, full of bright red fountains of inspiration
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim
And purple-stained mouth, stained lips with purple spots
That I may drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim.
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou amongst the leaves hast never known
The weariness, the fever, and the fret, forget the fatigue, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs. Here, youth, pale, thin, dead
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; and the paralyzed has a few white hairs swaying
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs; sadness and gloomy despair
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away!away!for I will fly to thee
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, go, I have gone with you
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne
Clustered around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet, in embalmed darkness, I can only guess
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild --, endow the fruit-tree, the thicket, and the grass
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; the white hawthorn, and the rose of the field
Fast fading violets covered up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child, and mid-May's coddle
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, this dewy musk-rose
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and for many a time, I listen in the dark, how many times
I have been half in love with easeful Death
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, I used up my words in poetry
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy! In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain --, with such ecstasy
To thy high requiem become a sod
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! 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: When to please ancient emperors and villagers
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, Ruth's sad heart, made her cry
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charmed magic cases, opening on the foam, opening the casement in the lost fairyland
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell, lost, this very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu!adieu!thy plaintive anthem fades, farewell! farewell! your complaining song,
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep, slipped up the hill-side, while it was deep,
In the next valley-glades:, buried in the nearby valley,
Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music --Do I wake or sleep?
——From NetEase Cloud Music
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