Keats sleep and poetry. 10 Greatest Poems by John Keats 2022-11-04
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John Keats was a British Romantic poet who is known for his vivid imagery and evocative language. One of the themes that Keats frequently explores in his poetry is the concept of sleep and its relationship to the creative process.
In his poem "To Sleep," Keats muses on the peacefulness and restorative power of sleep, describing it as a "soft deity" that "doth thy life destroy." He writes of how sleep allows the mind to escape the mundane realities of everyday life and enter into a realm of imagination and creativity. Keats also hints at the idea that sleep allows the mind to process and make sense of the experiences and emotions of the day, suggesting that it is an essential part of the creative process.
Another poem in which Keats addresses the theme of sleep is "Ode to a Nightingale." In this poem, Keats longs for the escape from reality that sleep and the accompanying dreams provide. He writes, "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." The nightingale's song serves as a reminder of the beauty and simplicity of nature, and Keats yearns for the peace and tranquility that sleep brings.
Sleep and the associated dreams also play a role in Keats's "The Eve of St. Agnes." In this poem, the protagonist Porphyro sneaks into Madeline's chambers on the eve of St. Agnes, a night when it was believed that young maidens would have prophetic dreams of their future husbands. Madeline falls into a deep sleep and has a dream in which she is united with Porphyro, symbolizing the power of sleep and dreams to bring about a sense of resolution and unity.
In conclusion, Keats's poetry frequently touches upon the theme of sleep and its relationship to the creative process. He writes of the restorative and escape-providing power of sleep and the importance of dreams in processing and making sense of daily experiences.
Sleep And Poetry by John Keats
Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows! Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life, Where I may find the agonies, the strife Of human hearts: for lo! Sappho's meek head was there half smiling down At nothing; just as though the earnest frown Of over thinking had that moment gone From off her brow, and left her all alone. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. I see afar, O'er-sailing the blue cragginess, a car And steeds with streamy manes--the charioteer Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear; And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly Along a huge cloud's ridge; and now with sprightly Wheel downward come they into fresher skies, Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright eyes. All hail delightful hopes! And with these airs come forms of elegance Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's prance, Careless, and grand-fingers soft and round Parting luxuriant curls;- and the swift bound Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye Made Ariadne's cheek look blushingly. Next Section Sources Previous Section Sonnet 17: Happy is England! What is more soothing than the pretty hummer That stays one moment in an open flower, And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower? Keats wrote it at a period of great personal difficulty, during which he could only find release through the two outlets in the title.
If I do hide myself, it sure shall be In the very fane, the light of Poesy: If I do fall, at least I will be laid Beneath the silence of a poplar shade; And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven; And there shall be a kind memorial graven. Did our old lamenting Thames Delight you? Scarce can I scribble on; for lovely airs Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs; Many delights of that glad day recalling, When first my senses caught their tender falling. That whining boyhood should with reverence bow Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach me? Then let us clear away the choaking thorns From round its gentle stem; let the young fawns, Yeaned in after times, when we are flown, Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown With simple flowers: let there nothing be More boisterous than a lover's bended knee; Nought more ungentle than the placid look Of one who leans upon a closed book; Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopes Between two hills. Did ye never cluster round Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound, And weep? Soft closer of our eyes! But what is higher beyond thought than thee? All hail, delightful hopes! Or did ye wholly bid adieu To regions where no more the laurel grew? But arguably is not enough, for Keats is so high in the poetic pantheon not just because he wrote the most superb lyrics La Belle Dame, a personal favourite of mine included here , but because he is an epic poet. Ere I can have explored its widenesses.
This immaturity only seems to get stronger throughout the poem as this idea of a perfect moment and life are portrayed. From the clear space of ether, to the small Breath of new buds unfolding? Or did ye wholly bid adieu 215 To regions where no more the laurel grew? Low murmurer of tender lullabies! Round about were hung 355 The glorious features of the bards who sung In other agesâcold and sacred busts Smiled at each other. From my experience, perhaps the greatest article written on Keats and his poetry is from the Schiller Institute. Happy he who trusts To clear Futurity his darling fame! The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet Into the brain ere one can think upon it; The silence when some rhymes are coming out; And when they're come, the very pleasant rout: The message certain to be done to-morrow. These things are doubtless: yet in truth we've had Strange thunders from the potency of song; Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong, From majesty: but in clear truth the themes Are ugly clubs, the Poets' Polyphemes Disturbing the grand sea. THE END lines 250-1 : An idea, says Leigh Hunt. First the realm I'll pass Of Flora, and old Pan: sleep in the grass, Feed upon apples red, and strawberries, And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees; Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places, To woo sweet kisses from averted faces, - Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders white Into a pretty shrinking with a bite As hard as lips can make it: till agreed, A lovely tale of human life we'll read.
31. Sleep and Poetry. Keats, John. 1884. The Poetical Works of John Keats
More serene than Cordelia's countenance? The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet Into the brain ere one can think upon it; The silence when some rhymes are coming out; And when they're come, the very pleasant rout: The message certain to be done to-morrow. Since we have chosen to focus on his shorter poems here, an honourable mention must go to three of his longer narrative poems: 10. Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice, And from the heart up-springs, rejoice! Yet I rejoice: a myrtle fairer than E'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds A silent space with ever-sprouting green. And with these airs come forms of elegance Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's prance, Careless, and grand--fingers soft and round Parting luxuriant curls; and the swift bound Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye Made Ariadne's cheek look blushingly. Ere I can have explored its widenesses. Thus I remember all the pleasant flow Of words at opening a portfolio.
John Keats and the Presentation of ''Sleep and Poetry''
Light hoverer around our happy pillows! As such, I doubt whether Mr. My spirit is too weakâmortality Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep, And each imagined pinnacle and steep Of godlike hardship tells me I must die Like a sick eagle looking at the sky. All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen, Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering, Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing. What, but thee Sleep? Yet I rejoice: a myrtle fairer than E'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds A silent space with ever sprouting green. Whose congregated majesty so fills My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace Your hallowed names, in this unholy place, So near those common folk; did not their shames Affright you? Will not some say that I presumptuously 270 Have spoken? Why so sad a moan? More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal, Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle? More serene than Cordelia's countenance? Light hoverer around our happy pillows! Here are the first few verses of the narrative poem. The blue Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew Of summer nights collected still to make The morning precious: beauty was awake! And can I ever bid these joys farewell? All hail delightful hopes! All hail delightful hopes! What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowing In a green island, far from all men's knowing? This line almost acts as his realization of all his claims and promises.
Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses! But let me think away those times of woe: Now 'tis a fairer season; ye have breathed Rich benedictions o'er us; ye have wreathed Fresh garlands: for sweet music has been heard In many places; some has been upstirr'd From out its crystal dwelling in a lake, By a swan's ebon bill; from a thick brake, Nested and quiet in a valley mild, Bubbles a pipe; fine sounds are floating wild About the earth: happy are ye and glad. . Round about were hung The glorious features of the bards who sung In other ages--cold and sacred busts Smiled at each other. Scarce can I scribble on; for lovely airs Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs; Many delights of that glad day recalling, When first my senses caught their tender falling. Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life, Where I may find the agonies, the strife Of human hearts: for lo! Whose congregated majesty so fills My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace Your hallow'd names, in this unholy place, So near those common folk; did not their shames Affright you? Then there rose to view a fane Of liny marble, and thereto a train Of nymphs approaching fairly o'er the sward: One, loveliest, holding her white band toward The dazzling sun-rise: two sisters sweet Bending their graceful figures till they meet Over the trippings of a little child: And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping. It was a poet's house who keeps the keys Of pleasure's temple. Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown; The reading of an ever-changing tale; The light uplifting of a maiden's veil; A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air; A laughing schoolboy, without grief or care, Riding the springy branches of an elm.
Will not some say that I presumptuously Have spoken? Ere I can have explored its widenesses. Round about were hung The glorious features of the bards who sung In other ages- cold and sacred busts Smiled at each other. Sale could disabuse me of such obtuseness. More secret than a nest of nightingales? What though I am not wealthy in the dower Of spanning wisdom; though I do not know The shiftings of the mighty winds that blow Hither and thither all the changing thoughts Of man: though no great minist'ring reason sorts Out the dark mysteries of human souls To clear conceiving: yet there ever rolls A vast idea before me, and I glean Therefrom my liberty; thence too I've seen The end and aim of Poesy. I knew nothing about Keats until I read this and it forever changed my life.
The blue Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew Of summer nights collected still to make The morning precious: beauty was awake! Ah, what a task! Soft closer of our eyes! But what is higher beyond thought than thee? More healthful than the leafiness of dales? From the meaning Of Jove's large eye-brow, to the tender greening Of April meadows?. GradeSaver, 13 July 2006 Web. Has she not shown us all? All hail delightful hopes! And can I ever bid these joys farewell? More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal, Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle? Ah, what a task! Low murmurer of tender lullabies! Ah, happy, happy boughs! If I do hide myself, it sure shall be In the very fane, the light of Poesy: If I do fall, at least I will be laid Beneath the silence of a poplar shade; And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven; And there shall be a kind memorial graven. Byron and Shelley are generally beyond me: I am only an amateur in my poetry reading. First the realm I'll pass Of Flora, and old Pan: sleep in the grass, Feed upon apples red, and strawberries, And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees; Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places, To woo sweet kisses from averted faces,-- Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders white Into a pretty shrinking with a bite As hard as lips can make it: till agreed, A lovely tale of human life we'll read. Light hoverer around our happy pillows! There is also his undeniable love for poetry which bodes well for his future and has a drive and passion for it that not many people have.
