(context: Keats at this point knew he was facing certain death of tuberculosis, he would soon after die at the age of 25)
My chest hurts, and I'm numb like I've drunk
Too much red wine, or maybe
Half a bottle of absinthe that dragged me
Into that place where memories fade.
Not because I envy your happiness,
But because your joy is too much to bear—
You, free spirit singing in the trees
In this music-filled corner
Of deep green leaves and endless shadows,
Singing of summer without a care.
God, I need a drink! Some vintage wine
That's been aging in cool cellars forever,
Tasting of flowers and countryside,
Of festivals, folk songs, and sun-drunk joy!
Give me a glass of that Mediterranean warmth,
Pure inspiration, red as a blush,
With bubbles dancing at the rim,
And wine-stained lips;
So I could drink and slip away unseen,
And fade with you into the dark woods.
Fade far away, forget completely
What you've never known among the leaves:
The exhaustion, fever, and anxiety
Here, where people sit and complain;
Where illness shakes the last grey hairs,
Where young people waste away and die;
Where just thinking brings sorrow
And stubborn despair,
Where beauty fades like summer sunsets,
And love dies before the season ends.
Away! Away! I'll fly to join you,
Not high on alcohol or coke,
But carried by poetry's invisible wings,
Even though my mind is slow and confused,
I'm already there! The night is gentle,
And maybe the moon rules her kingdom now,
Surrounded by her starry subjects;
But here below the trees
There's no light except the shards that peek
Through green darkness and winding paths.
I can't see the flowers at my feet,
Or what perfume drifts from the branches,
But in this sweet-scented darkness, I can only guess
What gifts this season brings:
Wild grass, jasmine, and fruit trees;
Hawthorn, and wild roses;
Violets hiding under leaves;
And May's firstborn,
The budding rose, drunk with evening dew,
Where summer moths will gather.
In darkness I listen; and not for the first time
I've flirted with the peace of death,
Written poetry about its gentle call,
To take my last breath into the night air;
Now it seems more tempting than ever
To stop breathing at midnight, painlessly,
While you pour out your soul
In such pure joy!
You'd still sing, while my ears turned to dust—
Just another ghost in your audience.
You weren't born to die, eternal Voice!
Centuries of death can't bury you;
The song I hear tonight was heard
By kings and peasants long ago:
Perhaps the same song that reached
Churchill's tent in moonlit woods, while penning
Last letters before the dawn's breach;
The same song that's often
Echoed through fantasies, across stormy seas
In forgotten, lonely lands.
Lonely! That word rings like a morning alarm
Jolting me back to my isolated self!
Goodbye! Even imagination can't fool me
As well as they say it can, you beautiful lie.
Goodbye! Goodbye! Your sad song fades
Past nearby fields, over the quiet stream,
Up the hillside; now buried
In the next valley:
Was this real or just a dream?
The music's gone—Am I awake or sleeping?
