They toil not, neither do they spin.
I
- 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,
- O, 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:
- 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 steeped in honeyed indolence;
- O, for an age so sheltered from annoy,
- That I may never know how change the moons,
- Or hear the voice of busy common-sense!
V
- And once more 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 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 sprite,
- Into the clouds, and never more return!
