Originally Posted by Linkzelda
Ode to a Butt
My butt aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My butt, as though of butts I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull butt to the drains
One minute past, and butt-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy butt,
But being too happy in thine buttiness,--
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the butts
In some melodious butt
Of beechen butt, and butts numberless,
Singest of butts in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of butt! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved butt,
Tasting of butt and the country butt,
Dance, and Provençal butt, and sunburnt butt!
O for a beaker full of the warm butt,
Full of the true, the blushful butt,
With beaded butts winking at the brim,
And purple-stained butt;
That I might drink, and leave the butt unseen,
And with thee fade away into the butt dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the butts hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where butts sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray butts,
Where butt grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but(t) to think is to be full of butts
And leaden-eyed butts,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous butt,
Or butt Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will butt to thee,
Not charioted by Buttchus and his butt,
But on the viewless butts of Poesy,
Though the dull butt perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the butt,
And haply the Queen-Butt is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry butts;
But here there is no butt,
Save what from butt is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy butts.
I cannot see what flowers are at my butt,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the butts,
But(t), in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable butt endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-butt wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral butt;
Fast fading butts cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest butt,
The coming musk-butt, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer butts.
Buttling I listen; and, for many a butt
I have been half in love with easeful Butt,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused butt,
To take into the butt my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the butt with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy butt abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have butts in vain--
To thy high requiem become a butt.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Butt!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The butt I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient butts by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same butt that found a path
Through the sad butt of Ruth, when, sick for butt,
She stood in tears amid the alien butt;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd butt casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous butts, in faery butts forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a butt
To toll me back from thee to my sole butt!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving butt.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive butt fades
Past the near butt, over the still butt,
Up the butt-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next butt-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking butt?
Fled is that butt:--Do I wake or sleep?
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