Ode on Indolence

One morn before me were three figures seen,

   With bowed necks, and joined hands, side-faced;

And one behind the other stepped serene,

   In placid sandals, and in white robes graced;

They passed, 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.

II

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

      Benumbed my eyes; my pulse grew less and less;

Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath no flower:

   Oh, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense

      Unhaunted quite of all but—nothingness?

III

A third time passed they by, and, passing, turned

   Each one the face a moment whiles to me;

Then faded, and to follow them I burned

   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 heaped upon her, maiden most unmeek,—

      I knew to be my demon Poesy.

IV

They faded, and, forsooth! I wanted wings:

   Oh, 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 steeped in honeyed indolence.

Oh, for an age so sheltered from annoy

   That I may never know how change the moons,

      Or hear the voice of busy common-sense!

A third time came they by; —Alas, wherefore?

   My sleep had been embroidered 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,

   Though in her lids hung the sweet tears of May;

      The open casement pressed 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.

VI

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 more5

   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 sprite

   Into the clouds, and never more return!