Ode on Indolence
by John Keats (1795-1821)

“They toil not, neither do they spin.”

                              I
One morn before me were three figures seen,
      With bowed necks, and joined 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-disguised 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 ach’d 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 fatigued 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
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.

                              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 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!

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