[鬼話連篇] numbness pains my sense

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  ode to a nightingale by john keats. 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 then leafy
  words had sunk. It is not through envy of thy happy lot, but being too happy in my happiness that thou liked wing and dried of the trees in some melodious plot of beach and green and shadows numberless
  sinister vascellum a in full throated ease o for a draught of vintage that have been cooled along age in the deep delved earth tasting of flora and the country green dance and provost cell song and sunburnt
  mirth o for a beaker full of the warm south full of the true the blush full hypocrite in with beaded bubbles winking at the brim and purple stain and mouth that I might drink and leave the world unseen and
  with the fade away into the forest dim fade far away dissolve and quite forget what thou among the leaves hast never known the weariness, the fever, and the fret here where men sit and hear each other groan
  where palsy shakes a few sad, last grey hairs where youth grows pale and specter thin and dies.
  Where but to think is to be full of sorrow and leaden eyed despairs where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes or new love pine at them beyond to morrowaway away for I will fly to the not chariot it
  by bacchus and his paths. But on the viewless wings of policy, though the dull brain perplexes and retards already with the tender is the night and haply the queen moon is on her throne, clustered around by
  all her story phase. But here there is no light save what from heaven is with the breezes blown through virtuous gloom and winding, mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, nor what soft incense
  hangs upon the bows. But in a balmer darkness guess each sweet where with the seasonable month and does the grass, the thicket and the fruit tree, wild white hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine, fast fading
  violets covered up in leaves and mid mais eldest child, the coming musk rose full of dewy wine, the murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling, I listen and for many a time I have been half in love
  with easeful. Death called him soft names in many amuse and 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 sing, and I have ears in vain to thy high requiem become a sod.
  There was not born for death. Immortal bird, no hungry generations tread the down the voice. I hear this passing night was heard in ancient days by emperor and clown, perhaps the self same song that
  found a path through the sad heart of ruth. When sick for home, she stood in tears amid the alien corn, the same that oft times hath charms magic case month's opening on the foam of perilous seas in fairy
  lands forlorn flown. The very word is like a bell to tow me back from the to my sole selfidea. The fancy cannot cheat so well as she is famed to do deceiving elf idea. And you they plaintive anthem fades
  past the near meadows over the still stream up the hillside. And now it is very deep in the next valley glade. Was it a vision or a waking dream?Fled. Is that music? Do I wake or sleep?

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