POEM OF THE DAY : ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE - JOHN KEATS

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ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE - JOHN KEATS

ROMANTIC POETRY READING

93,381 views

May 3, 2016

GM Danielson

40.2K subscribers

 

♢ READ ALONG with the POEM ♢

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem...

 

John Keat's famous, disconsolate reflection on the nightingale's song.

 

Read and mixed by G.M. Danielson.

 

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G.M. Danielson works as a professional voice actor and sound engineer, producing boutique audiobook content with a nod to the great radio dramas of the past. Danielson's pet project, G.M. Danielson’s Horror Vault began with a singular vision: to offer listeners and aesthetes of horror an unusually personalized experience. A strong believer in the social component of business, Danielson spends a great portion of his efforts replying and corresponding with his many fans and supporters. In a world where meaningful social interaction is an ever-changing - and, to some, a declining - art form, G.M. Danielson’s Horror Vault stands as a rare gem among many glass substitutes.

 

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#JohnKeats #RomanticPoetry #Nightingale

The full poem from Poetry Foundation.com below:

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 Lethe-wards had sunk:

'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,

         But being too happy in thine happiness,—

                That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees

                        In some melodious plot

         Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,

                Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been

         Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,

Tasting of Flora and the country green,

         Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!

O for a beaker full of the warm South,

         Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

                With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

                        And purple-stained mouth;

         That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,

                And with thee 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 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,

         Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,

                Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,

         Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,

But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

         Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:

Already with thee! tender is the night,

         And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,

                Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;

                        But here there is no light,

         Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown

                Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

         Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,

But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet

         Wherewith the seasonable month endows

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;

         White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;

                Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;

                        And mid-May's 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,

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 sing, and I have ears in vain—

                   To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!

         No hungry generations tread thee 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

         Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam

                Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

         To toll me back from thee to my sole self!

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well

         As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades

         Past the near meadows, over the still stream,

                Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep

                        In the next valley-glades:

         Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

                Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

 

Grateful thanks to

GM Danielson,

Poetry Foundation.com

and YouTube and all the others who made this video possible

THE COCKNEY ROMANTICS : JOHN KEATS AND HIS FRIENDS

THE COCKNEY ROMANTICS: JOHN KEATS 

AND HIS FRIENDS

7,683 views•May 24, 2019

GRESHAM COLLEGE

121K subscribers

 

The younger generation of English Romantics were Londoners through and through. They were known as the 'Cockney School of Poetry'.

 

A lecture by SIR JONATHAN BATE FBA, GRESHAM PROFESSOR OF RHETORIC 14 May 2019

 

https://www.gresham.ac.uk/lectures-an...

 

The word Romanticism makes us think of mountain tops and stormy seas, but the younger generation of English Romantics (above all, John Keats) were Londoners through and through. They were even mocked as ‘the Cockney School of Poetry’.

 

Jonathan Bate will track Keats to Hampstead and tell of the extraordinary circle of writers – opium-eater Thomas De Quincey, essayist Charles Lamb, master-critic William Hazlitt – who wrote for The London Magazine, until its gifted editor was killed in a duel with a rival critic.

 

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Grateful thanks to GRESHAM COLLEGE, SIR JONATHAN BATE FBA, GRESHAM PROFESSOR OF RHETORIC and YouTube and all the others who made this video possible 

POEM OF THE DAY : "ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE" BY JOHN KEATS

"ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE" BY JOHN KEATS | 

ROMANTIC POETRY READING

74,511 views•May 3, 2016

HORRORCRAFT

31.6K subscribers

♢ READ ALONG with the POEM ♢

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem...

 

John Keat's famous, disconsolate reflection on the nightingale's song.

 

Read and mixed by G.M.DANIELSON.

 

Grateful thanks to G.M.DANIELSON. HORRORCRAFT and YouTube and all those          who made this video possible 

Poem of the day-79: "La Belle Dame sans Merci" by John Keats

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woebegone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful — a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look'd at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said —
"I love thee true."

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore;
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dream'd — Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream'd
On the cold hill's side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried — "La Belle Dame sans Merci
Thee hath in thrall!"

I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Poem of the day-62: "When I have Fears" by John Keats

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charact'ry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love - then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone and think.
Til love and fame to nothingness to sink.

Poem of the day-50: "On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer"

Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific—and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise—
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

- John Keats

Poem of the day-35: "On First Looking into Chapman's Homer" by John Keats

Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow'd ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific - and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise -
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

Poem of the day-30: "On Leaving Some Friends at an Early Hour"

Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
On heap'd up flowers, in regions clear, and far;
Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,
Or hand of hymning angel, when 'tis seen
The silver strings of heavenly harp atween:
And let there glide by many a pearly car,
Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar,
And half discovered wings, and glances keen.
The while let music wander round my ears,
And as it reaches each delicious ending,
Let me write down a line of glorious tone,
And full of many wonders of the spheres:
For what a height my spirit is contending!
'Tis not content so soon to be alone.

John Keats, 1817