“Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Called him soft names in my a musèd 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!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.”
— John Keats, ‘Ode to a Nightingale (fragment)’ (via januaryvictim)
(Source: lightbeforetherain)
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