Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow
« Under the flag
Of each his faction, they to battle bring
Their embryon atoms. » — Milton
Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow,
Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow,
Lethe’s weed and Hermes’ feather;
Come today, and come tomorrow,
I do love you both together!
I love to mark sad faces in fair weather,
And hear a merry laugh amid the thunder;
Fair and foul I love together.
Meadows sweet where flames burn under,
And a giggle at a wonder;
Visage sage at pantomine;
Funeral, and steeple-chime;
Infant playing with a skull;
Morning fair, and shipwreck’d hull;
Nightshade with the woodbine kissing ;
Serpents in red roses hissing ;
Cleopatra regal-dressed
With the aspics at her breast;
Dancing music, music sad,
Both together, sane and mad;
Muses bright and Muses pale;
Sombre Saturn, Momus hale; —
Laugh and sigh, and laugh again;
O the sweetness of the pain!
Muses bright, and Muses pale,
Bare your faces of the veil;
Let me see ! and let me write
Of the day, and of the night —
Both together. — Let me slake
All my thirst for sweet heart-ache!
Let my bower be of yew,
Interwreath’d with myrtles new;
Pines and lime-trees full in bloom,
And my couch a low grass-tomb.
(John Keats.)
Come today, and come tomorrow,
I do love you both together!
I love to mark sad faces in fair weather,
And hear a merry laugh amid the thunder;
Fair and foul I love together.
Meadows sweet where flames burn under,
And a giggle at a wonder;
Visage sage at pantomine;
Funeral, and steeple-chime;
Infant playing with a skull;
Morning fair, and shipwreck’d hull;
Nightshade with the woodbine kissing ;
Serpents in red roses hissing ;
Cleopatra regal-dressed
With the aspics at her breast;
Dancing music, music sad,
Both together, sane and mad;
Muses bright and Muses pale;
Sombre Saturn, Momus hale; —
Laugh and sigh, and laugh again;
O the sweetness of the pain!
Muses bright, and Muses pale,
Bare your faces of the veil;
Let me see ! and let me write
Of the day, and of the night —
Both together. — Let me slake
All my thirst for sweet heart-ache!
Let my bower be of yew,
Interwreath’d with myrtles new;
Pines and lime-trees full in bloom,
And my couch a low grass-tomb.
(John Keats.)
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