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  • LibriVox – To Autumn by Keats, John


    LibriVox – To Autumn by Keats, John
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  • Q&A: poetry analysis on John Keats “Why Did I Laugh? I will Never Tell”?

    Question by Danielle F: poetry analysis on John Keats “Why Did I Laugh? I will Never Tell”?

    Best answer:

    Answer by poetryz
    If your never going to tell, why did you post this question??

    Give your answer to this question below!

  • LibriVox – Lines on The Mermaid Tavern by Keats, John


    LibriVox – Lines on The Mermaid Tavern by Keats, John
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  • [ S ] John Singer Sargent -The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit (1882)

    A few nice John Singer Sargent images I found:

    [ S ] John Singer Sargent -The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit (1882)

    Image by Cea.

    The Smoky Thames by John Singer Sargent, 1885

    Image by jimforest

  • John Keats: “priesthood in Literature”

                                            John Keats: “Priesthood in Literature”                     

    John Keats (1795-1821) was the son of a livery-stable keeper in England. An orphan at the age of 15, he devoted his short life to poetry, instead of joining a medical career.

     Inspired and encouraged by his friends Leigh Hunt, and Haydon, the painter, Keats was able to publish a volume of  Poems (1817), Endymion (1820), Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. Agnes and other poems.

               Most of the critics were very hostile towards his poetry, and this unjust criticism, as has been said by several critics, caused his death, but this does not seem to be the truth. The soul of Keats was not so fragile or weak. Matthew Arnold reminds us that the soul of Keats was made of “flint”. He is one of the few English poets, who has often been compared with Shakespeare.

    His great Odes were written in 1819. Afflicted with consumption, he left for Italy, and died in Rome in 1821.  

               Keats’ fame rests on his delicately marvelous Odes- To a Nightingale, On a Grecian Urn, To Psyche, On Melancholy, To Autumn, and immortal sonnets On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer, When I have Fears, and Bright Star. His Odes are marked by the perfectly rounded wholeness of  highly imaginative, enchantingly sensuous and pictorial phrases: 

    My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

    My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,

    …           …

    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.

                                                                  -Ode to a Nightingale

     

    Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,

    Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,

    Sylvan historian …

                                                                  -Ode on a Grecian Urn

    Adoration of Beauty was like religion for Keats: “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,-that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know” (Ode on a Grecian Urn).

    Keats strongly feels that Beauty is supreme Truth, discovered and created by imagination; the logical reasoning fails to find Beauty. Keats’ “priesthood in literature” deserves admiration by all.  

     

    Written by SantoshK
    Poet, haiku composer, literary critic, peace poet

  • John Keats – To Autumn [Original Manuscript]

    Read by Ben Whishaw. John Keats (1795 – 1821). Images of the original manuscript, written on both sides of a single sheet of paper by Keats’ own hand. ‘To Autumn’ was the last of Keats’ great lyrics. It was more heavily revised than other works. This is perhaps Keats’ most famous and beloved work. It is considered the perfect embodiment of poetic form, intent, and effect. ●▬▬▬▬▬▬๑۩۩๑▬▬▬▬▬▬● SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep, Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozing, hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds
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