Ode on Indolence

"They toil not, neither do they spin"

I

One morn before me were three figures seen,

With bowéd necks, and joinéd hands, side-faced;

And one behind the other stepp'd serene,

In placid sandals, and in white robes graced:

They pass'd, 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-disguiséd plot

To steal away, and leave without a task

My idle days? Ripe was the drowsy hour;

The blissful cloud of summer-indolence

Benumb'd 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 pass'd they by, and, passing, turn'd

Each one the face a moment whiles to me;

Then faded, and to follow them I burn'd

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 fatiguéd eye;

The last, whom I love more, the more of blame

Is heap'd 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 steep'd in honied indolence;

O, for an age so shelter'd from annoy,

That I may never know how change the moons,

Or hear the voice of busy common-sense!

V

A third time came they by:—alas! wherefore?

My sleep had been embroider'd 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 press'd 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 dreary urn;

Farewell! I yet have visions for the night,

And for the day faint visions there is store;

Vanish, ye phantoms, from my idle spright,

Into the clouds, and never more return!