IntroductionNote to the Third EditionAcknowledgementsTables of DatesFurther Reading--Imitation of Spenser--On Peace--'Fill for me a brimming bowl'--To Lord Byron--'As from the darkening gloom a silver dove'--'Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream'--To Chatterton--Written on the Day that Mr Leigh Hunt left Prison--To Hope--Ode to Apollo ('In thy western halls of gold')--Lines Written on 29 May The Anniversary of the Restoration of Charles the 2nd--To Some Ladies--On Receiving a Curious Shell, and a Copy of Verses, from the Same Ladies--To Emma--Song ('Stay, ruby-breasted warbler, stay')--'Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain'--'O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell'--To George Felton Mathew--To [Mary Frogley]--To --- ('Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs')--'Give me Women, Wine, and Snuff'--Specimen of an Introduction to a Poem--Calidore. A Fragment--'To one who has been long in city pent'--'O! how I love, on a fair summer's eve'--To a Friend who Sent me some Roses--To my Brother George ('Many the wonders I this day have seen')--To my Brother George ('Full many a dreary hour have I passed')--To Charles Cowden Clarke--'How many bards gild the lapses of time!'--On First Looking into Chapman's Homer--To a Young Lady who sent me a Laurel Crown--On Leaving some Friends at an Early Hour--'Keen, fitful gusts are whispering here and there'--Addressed to Haydon--To my Brothers--Addressed to [Haydon]--'I stood tip-toe upon a little hill'--Sleep and Poetry--Written in Disgust of Vulgar Superstition--On the Grasshopper and Cricket--To Kosciusko--To G[eorgiana] A[ugusta] W[ylie]--'Happy is England! I could be content'--'After dark vapours have oppressed our plains'--To Leigh Hunt, Esq.--Written on a Blank Space at the End of Chaucer's Tale of 'The Floure and the Leafe'--On Receiving a Laurel Crown from Leigh Hunt--To the Ladies who Saw Me Crowned--Ode to Apollo ('God of the golden bow')--On Seeing the Elgin Marbles--To B. R. Haydon, with a Sonnet Written on Seeing the Elgin Marbles--On 'The Story of Rimini'--On a Leander Gem which Miss Reynolds, my Kind Friend, Gave Me--On the Sea--Lines ('Unfelt, unheard, unseen')--Stanzas ('You say you love; but with a voice')--'Hither, hither, love ---'--Lines Rhymed in a Letter Received (by J. H. Reynolds) From Oxford--'Think not of it, sweet one, so --'--Endymion: A Poetic Romance--'In drear-nighted December'--Nebuchadnezzar's Dream--Apollo to the Graces--To Mrs Reynolds's Cat--On Seeing a Lock of Milton's Hair. Ode--On Sitting Down to Read 'King Lear' Once Again--'When I have fears that I may cease to be'--'O blush not so! O blush not so!'--'Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port'--'God of the meridian'--Robin Hood--Lines on the Mermaid Tavern--To --- ('Time's sea hath been five years at its slow ebb')--To the Nile--'Spenser! a jealous honourer of thine'--'Blue! 'Tis the life of heaven, the domain'--'O thou whose face hath felt the Winter's wind'--Sonnet to A[ubrey] G[eorge] S[pencer]Extracts from an Opera:--i 'O! were I one of the Olympian twelve'--ii Daisy's Song--iii Folly's Song--iv 'O, I am frightened with most hateful thoughts'--v Song ('The stranger lighted from his steed')--vi 'Asleep! O sleep a little while, white pearl!'--The Human Seasons--'For there's Bishop's Teign'--'Where be ye going, you Devon maid?'--'Over the hill and over the dale'--To J. H. Reynolds, Esq.--To J[ames] R[ice]--Isabella; or, The Pot of Basil--To Homer--Ode to May. Fragment--Acrostic--'Sweet, sweet is the greeting of eyes'--On Visiting the Tomb of Burns--'Old Meg she was a gipsy'--A Song about Myself--'Ah! ken ye what I met the day'--To Ailsa Rock--'This mortal body of a thousand days'--'All gentle folks who owe a grudge'--'Of late two dainties were before me placed'--Lines Written in the Highlands after a Visit to Burns's Country--On Visiting Staffa--'Read me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loud'--'Upon my life, Sir Nevis, I am piqued'--Stanzas on some Skulls in Beauly Abbey, near Inverness--Translated from Ronsard--''Tis "the witching time of night"'--'Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow'--Song ('Spirit here that reignest')--'Where's the Poet? Show him, show him'--Fragment of the 'Castle Builder'--'And what is love? It is a doll dressed up'--Hyperion. A Fragment--Fancy--Ode ('Bards of Passion and of Mirth')--Song ('I had a dove and the sweet dove died')--Song ('Hush, hush! tread softly! hush, hush my dear!')--The Eve of St Agnes--The Eve of St Mark--'Gif ye wol stonden hardie wight'--'Why did I laugh tonight?'--Faery Bird's Song ('Shed no tear - O, shed no tear!')--Faery Song ('Ah! woe is me! poor silver-wing!')--'When they were come unto the Faery's Court'--'The House of Mourning written by Mr Scott'--Character of Charles Brown--A Dream, after reading Dante's Episode of Paolo and Francesca--La Belle Dame sans Merci. A Ballad--Song of Four Faeries--To Sleep--'If by dull rhymes our English must be chained'--Ode to Psyche--On Fame (I) ('Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy')--On Fame (II) ('How fevered is the man who cannot look')--'Two or three posies'--Ode on a Grecian Urn--Ode to a Nightingale--Ode on Melancholy--Ode on Indolence--Otho the Great. A Tragedy in Five Acts--Lamia--'Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes'--To Autumn--The Fall of Hyperion. A Dream--'The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone'--'What can I do to drive away'--'I cry your mercy, pity, love - ay, love'--'Bright star! would I were as steadfast as thou art'--King Stephen. A Fragment of a Tragedy--'This living hand, now warm and capable'--The Cap and Bells; or, The Jealousies--To Fanny--'In after-time, a sage of mickle lore'--Three Undated FragmentsDoubtful Attributions--'See, the ship in the bay is riding'--The Poet--GripusAppendix 1: Wordsworth and Hazlitt on the Origins of Greek MythologyAppendix 2: The Two Prefaces to 'Endymion'Appendix 3: The Order of Poems in 'Poems' (1817) and 'Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St Agnes, and Other Poems' (1820)andThe Publisher's Advertisement for 1820Appendix 4: Keats's Notes on Milton's 'Paradise Lost'Appendix 5: Keats on Kean's Shakespearean ActingAppendix 6: Selection of Keats's LettersNotesDictionary of Classical NamesIndex of TitlesIndex of First Lines
Now, I've got mad love for Lord Byron, for both his poetry and his extravagant character. But as soon as I read his scoffing and sneering remarks on "that little dirty blackguard KEATES" -- well, I branded myself Team Keats forever. And I do love them both, but OOF! when I think about that feud I feel a window open to the very same black lake of bitterness, self-pity and despair we know Keats looked on for most of his life.Of course, I don't agree when Keats throws shade on Byron's talent: "You speak of Lord Byron and me - There is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees - I describe what I imagine - Mine is the hardest task." I mean, come on, Keats. Byron had plenty of imagination, and was certainly as tormented and complex as any good Romantic in y'all's day. But, I'm on Keats's side in his assessment of Byron's career as a creative. Byron didn't just get good reviews because of his title and social status, but Byron also never had his lack of title and social status brought up in bad reviews like Keats did. So you can't help but feel where Keats is coming from when he dismisses Byron's success as superficial: "You see what it is to be six foot tall and a lord!" And you can't help but bristle when Loooord Byron looks down his nose at the poor "cockney" Keats. Yes, yeah, let's be real though: I'm a working-class writer from the sticks and when I say I'm Team Keats, I'm relating to the timeless, unfortunate rift between talented artists with money and talented artists without. Talent doesn't discriminate. Sometimes it lands in an aristocrat -- in a wealthy family, with connections, with education, with access to resources and support. And sometimes it lands in a real have-not, in a poor, sick family with far more dire immediate needs to attend to than creative ambition. Poor Keats. He is the patron saint of all the lonely talents living outside the scene, watching their dreams snuffed out by poverty and lack of choices. And Byron, bless his heart -- he watches over all the talented young artists in Williamsburg, laboring all day over their idiosyncratic projects with little concern for money because their parents subsidize their apartments and allow them time to hone their crafts and go out schmoozing with the tastemakers in their highly networkable neighborhood. We feel you, Keats. Don't we? Don't we just feel that bone-deep, miserable, mournful longing when he writes of ambition, and fame, and his own dwindling life? He was poor, he was sick, and he was never going to get his chance. It wasn't fair. I always thought this part of Ode to a Nightingale was the saddest tangent on talent, fame and success. No particular nightingale is gifted with any unique song. One nightingale is the same as any other; any nightingale is the nightingale. But that means the nightingale is practically born into success and recognition -- and it sings its legendary song throughout the centuries, civilizations and languages. The nightingale will never think about its own craft, but it will sing and be recognized forever. The nightingale is beyond hardship and death. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!t No hungry generations tread thee down;t The voice I hear this passing night was heardt In ancient days by emperor and clown:t Perhaps the self-same song that found a patht Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,t She stood in tears amid the alien corn;t The same that ofttimes hatht Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foamt Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.t Forlorn! the very word is like a bellt To toll me back from thee to my sole self!t Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so wellt As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.t Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fadest Past the near meadows, over the still stream,t Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deept In the next valley-glades:t Was it a vision, or a waking dream?t Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?:( Poor Keats. P.S. Here's a fun site for Keats & Byron fans!
Do You like book The Complete Poems (1994)?
Cat! who has pass'd thy grand climacteric,How many mice and rats hast in thy daysDestroy'd? How many tit-bits stolen? GazeWith those bright languid segments green, andprickThose velvet ears - but prythee do not stickThy latent talons in me - and tell me all thy frays,Of fish and mice, and rats and tender chick;Nay, look not down, nor lick thy dainty wrists, -For all the wheezy asthma - and for allThy tail's tip is nick'd off - and though the fistsOf many a maid have given thee many a maul,Still is thy fur as when the listsIn youth thou enter'dst on glass-bottled wall.
—Zari
I'm going to come right out and say that I'm not usually a huge poetry fan. (Except in the epic sense where it's actually basically a novel, Byron, or Shakespeare.) But I make a huge exception for Keats. I adore Keats. All of Keats. You can't show me a poem of Keats that I wouldn't like. This stuff is so heartbreakingly beautiful sometimes, I can hardly stand it. If anyone else has a poet to recommend that they can't live without, please do. I would really like to get more into poetry. I just haven't found any poet (besides those already mentioned) to motivate me. Thanks!
—Kelly
This pleasant tale is like a little copse:The honied lines do freshly interlace,To keep the reader in so sweet a place,So that he here and there full hearted stops;And of ten times he feels the dewy dropsCome cool and suddenly against his face,And by the wandering melody traceWhich way the tender-legged linnet hops.Oh! what a power has white simplicity!What mighty power has this gentle story!I, that do ever feel athirst for glory,Could at this moment be content to lieMeekly upon the grass, as those whose sobbingsWere heard of none besides the mournful robbins. -"This pleasant tale is like a little copse"( Before I start, I'd like to take a moment to link to reviews I already did of some of Keats' longer works: here, here, and here. )I can relate to Keats. Really, I feel like he talks about feelings that I totally long for, understand, and suffer from. For example, the poem I provided above is probably my favorite little piece out of all of Keats' works because his words reflect how I often feel. He reminisces about being able to get lost in a story and ponder its words during a time which is so lazy and slow-paced that it's possible. You know what? This kind of poetry really makes me feel connected to the poet, which is a very special and rare feeling to evoke from a reader. I can honestly never say that any poet has moved me so very much without having to write about a very profound topic. I really slaved over which poem I wanted to use as an example. I actually wrote lots and lots of Keats' poems down to keep for whenever I wanted. It was a very hard choice to make, which should really be a strong indicator about how I feel about this poetry. The first and foremost point I'd like to bring up is that Keats is a rhyming master. Sometimes I'd come across a rhyme so clever that I'd have to stop and think about it for a while. This is such a delicious process to have to go through- is it the desired effect that the poet goes for? I think it is. While Keats has some 'meh' works, which would be his longer works, I think that his odes, sonnets, and other short poems are nothing but pure, unadulterated genius. Really, I wonder if Keats was really just a person or if he was some kind of Muse or something. I just don't get how it's possible to be this amazing. And this is coming from someone who unashamedly admits that she doesn't read poetry a lot. One more poem to end this review:Cat! who hast past thy grand climacteric,How many mice and rats hast in thy daysDestroy'd?- how many tit bits stolen? GazeWith those bright languid segments green and prickThose velvet ears- but prythee do not stickThy latent talons in me- and upraiseThy gentle mew- and tell me all thy fraysOf fish and mice and tender chick. Nay, look not down, not lick thy dainty wrists-For all the wheezy asthma- and for allThy tail's tip is nicked off- and though the fistsOf many a maid have given thee many a maul,Still is that fur as soft as when the listsIn youth thou enter'dst on glass bottled wall.-"To Mrs. Reynold's Cat"
—Sarah
