John Keats · England · 1819
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,—
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
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:
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?John Keats · England · 1819
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,—
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
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:
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?“My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains…”
My heart feels heavy, almost numb — like I've swallowed something that makes the world go blurry. But hearing your song, nightingale, makes me feel overwhelmed by your pure, uncomplicated happiness as you sing freely in the green trees.
“Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!…”
You are eternal, nightingale. You don''t fear death the way I do. This same song echoed through ancient history — emperors heard it, the biblical Ruth heard it, sailors heard it drifting over dangerous seas.
“Forlorn! the very word is like a bell…”
But the word "forlorn" snaps me back to reality. The magical escape your music offered was an illusion. Your song fades away. Was any of this real? Was I dreaming? I honestly can''t tell if I''m awake right now.
Why this poem matters
Keats wrote this in a single morning in a friend's garden after hearing a nightingale sing. He was already ill with tuberculosis and would die just two years later at 25.