Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes. - John Keats

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 gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs.

I can bear to die - I cannot bear to leave her.

When through the old oak forest I am gone,
Let me not wander in a barren dream.