The grass,

the thicket,

and the fruit-tree wild;

White hawthorn,

and the pastoral eglantine;

Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;

And mid-May's eldest child,

The coming musk-rose,

full of dewy wine,

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen;

and,

for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath;

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

In such an ecstasy!