![]() Critical Analysis The themesĬontrast between mortality, represented by fragile man, as opposed to immortality, reflected by the bird Now, if you want to know more, you may read the stanza wise summary of the poem. But physical constraints prevent him and he consoles his depressed heart with the estimation that the nightingale is “immortal.” However, as the bird flies away, he is left pondering whether the entire experience had been a reality or a fragment of his imagination. The poet, on hearing the song of the nightingale, feels enthralled and desperately wishes to fly away with it. The second amidst the six celebrated odes of John Keats, “Ode to a Nightingale” is one of his most personal odes that were composed one spring morning, when he was enthralled by hearing the magical voice of a nightingale while visiting his friend, Charles Brown in Hampstead.įollowing a traditional Greek Ode, this lyrical poem celebrates the nightingale as the main subject but incorporates other elements too that help it to remain one of the choicest poems of English literature. Fled is that music:-Do I wake or sleep?.Up the hill-side and now ’tis buried deep.Past the near meadows, over the still stream,.Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades.To toil me back from thee to my sole self!.Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam.She stood in tears amid the alien corn.Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,.Perhaps the self-same song that found a path.The voice I hear this passing night was heard.Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!.Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain.While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad.To cease upon the midnight with no pain,.Now more than ever seems it rich to die,.Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,. ![]() I have been half in love with easeful Death,.Darkling I listen and, for many a time.The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,.Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves.White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine.The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild.But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet.Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,.I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,.Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown.Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays.And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,.Already with thee! tender is the night,.Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:.Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,.Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,.Where but to think is to be full of sorrow.Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies.Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,.Here, where men sit and hear each other groan.What thou among the leaves hast never known,.Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget.And with thee fade away into the forest dim:.That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,. ![]()
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