Fill for me a brimming bowl

      And let me in it drown my soul:

      But put therein some drug, designed

      To banish women from my mind:

      For I want not the stream inspiring

      That fills the mind with – fond desiring,

      But I want as deep a draught

      As e’er from Lethe’s wave was quaff d;

      From my despairing heart to charm

      The image of the fairest form

      That e’er my reveling eyes beheld,

      That e’er my wandering fancy spell’d.

      In vain! away I cannot chase

      The melting softness of that face,

      The beaminess of those bright eyes,

      That breast-earth’s only Paradise.

      My sight will never more be blest;

      For all I see has lost its zest:

      Nor with delight can I explore

      The Classic page, or Muse’s lore.

      Had she but known how beat my heart,

      And with one smile reliev’d its smart

      I should have felt sweet relief,

      I should have felt ‘the joy of grief.’

      Yet as the Tuscan mid the snow

      Of Lapland thinks on sweet Arno,

      Even so for ever shall she be

      The Halo of my Memory.

      Give me a golden pen, and let me lean

      On heap’d up flowers, in regions clear, and far;

      Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,

      Or hand of hymning angel, when ’tis seen

      The silver strings of heavenly harp atween:

      And let there glide by many a pearly car,

      Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar,

      And half discovered wings, and glances keen.

      The while let music wander round my ears.

      And as it reaches each delicious ending,

      Let me write down a line of glorious tone,

      And full of many wonders of the spheres:

      For what a height my spirit is contending!

      ’Tis not content so soon to be alone.

      Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals,

      And their faint cracklings o’er our silence creep

      Like whispers of the household gods that keep

      A gentle empire o’er fraternal souls.

      And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles,

      Your eyes are fix’d, as in poetic sleep,

      Upon the lore so voluble and deep,

      That aye at fall of night our care condoles.

      This is your birthday Tom, and I rejoice

      That thus it passes smoothly, quietly.

      Many such eves of gently whisp’ring noise

      May we together pass, and calmly try

      What are this world’s true joys, – ere the great voice,

      From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly.

      O what can ail thee, knight at arms,

      Alone and palely loitering?

      The sedge has wither’d from the lake,

      And no birds sing.

      O What can ail thee, knight at arms,

      So haggard and so woe-begone?

      The squirrel’s granary is full,

      And the harvest’s done.

      I see a lily on thy brow

      With