Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry getnerations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Ode to a Nightingale//John Keats
2 comments:
cute picture.
so today
i just
i miss you.
Post a Comment