Weekly Interlinear Poem




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Robert Jackson

This is the poem for the week of September 29.
A new interlinear poem is available each Monday.


Ode to a Nightingale (first two verses)

-John Keats


My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk
hemlock=a poison
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
to the drains=drained away
One minute past and Lethe-wards had sunk.
Lethe= a river in Hades from which the dead drank and thus obtained forgetfulness of the past
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot
But being too happy in thine happiness
the nightingale's singing makes the poet so happy that he (sad to say) wants to leave this suffering world and join the bird
That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,
Dryad=a nature goddess of the forest
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green and shadows numberless,
beechen green=beech-tree green
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O for a draught of vintage! that hath been
draught of vintage=a serving of wine drawn from a keg
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvèd earth,
deep-delved=deeply dug
Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
Flora=flowers
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South!
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
blushful=blush colored (red)
Hippocrene=a fountain sacred to the goddesses of the arts

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stainèd mouth;
mouth=mouth of the beaker
That I might drink and leave the world unseen
And with thee fade away into the forest dim.





My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,
That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvèd earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South!
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stainèd mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim.