Ode to a Nightingale,1820. (1795-1821), John Keats

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easefull Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused 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 soul sing, and I have ears in vain - To thy high requiem become a sod.