John Keats — Ode on Indolence

"They toil not, neither do they spin.” One morn before me were three figures seen,      With bowèd necks, and joinèd 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. How is it, Shadows! that I knew ye not?       How came ye muffled in so hush a mask? Was it a silent deep-disguisèd 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? 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 fatiguèd 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. 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 honey’d 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! And once more 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,      Tho’ 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. 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 dreamy 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!