And every leaf, and every flower Then the hurry and alarm When the bee-hive casts its swarm; Acorns ripe down-pattering While the autumn breezes sing. Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose; Every thing is spoilt by use; Where's the cheek that doth not fade, Too much gazed at? Where's the maid Whose lip mature is ever new? Where's the eye, however blue, Doth not weary ? Where's the face At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth Ere the God of Torment taught her With a waist and with a side And Jove grew languid.—Break the mesh Quickly break her prison-string, And such joys as these she'll bring. Let the winged Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home. ODE. BARDS of Passion and of Mirth, Browsed by none but Dian's fawns; Thus ye live on high, and then On the earth ye live again ; And the souls ye left behind you Teach us, here, the way to find you, Where your other souls are joying, Never slumber'd, never cloying. Here, your earth-born souls still speak To mortals, of their little week; Of their sorrows and delights; Of their passions and their spites; Of their glory and their shame; What doth strengthen and what maim. Thus ye teach us, every day, Wisdom, though fled far away. Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth! Ye have souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new! 21 TO AUTUMN. SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness! a eaves run; d To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, c shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy) cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad find may Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook d |