On First Looking into Chapman's Homer by John Keats
Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
On First Looking into Chapman's Homer by John Keats
Much have I travell'd 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;
On First Looking into Chapman's Homer by John Keats
Much have I travell'd 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;
On First Looking into Chapman's Homer by John Keats
Much have I travell'd 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 star'd at the Pacific—and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise—
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
On First Looking into Chapman's Homer by John Keats
Much have I travell'd 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 star'd at the Pacific—and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise—
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any
lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the Sound. And
as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away until
gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch �sailors' eyes--a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees, the
trees that had made way for Gatsby's house, had once pandered in whispers
to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted
moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, �compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired,
face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his
capacity for wonder.
And as I sat there brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of Gatsby's
wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy's dock. He
had come a long way to this blue lawn and his dream must have seemed so
close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already �behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the
dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.
Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes
before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter--tomorrow we will run faster,
stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning----
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
F. Scott Fitzgerald The Great Gatsby
Have you ever been overwhelmed by the beauty,
creativity, brilliance of something?
Have you ever experienced a book, movie,
painting, poem or any work of art – that made � you see something you had already
experienced – � in a new and profound way?
Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
on
Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, �
Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, �Sylvan historian, who canst thus express � A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: �
Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, �Sylvan historian, who canst thus express � A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: �What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape � Of deities or mortals, or of both, � In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? �
Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, �Sylvan historian, who canst thus express � A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: �What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape � Of deities or mortals, or of both, � In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? � What men or gods are these? What
maidens loth? �What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? � What pipes and timbrels? What wild
ecstasy? �
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard � Are sweeter;
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard � Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; �Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, � Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: �
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard � Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; �Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, � Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: �Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave � Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; �
From Keats’s “Ode to a Nightingale”
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.
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard � Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; �Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, � Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: �Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave � Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; � Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, �Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve; � She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, � For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! �
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed � Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; �
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed � Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; �And, happy melodist, unwearied, � For ever piping songs for ever new; �
From “When I Have Fears…” by Keats
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed � Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; �And, happy melodist, unwearied, � For ever piping songs for ever new; �More happy love! more happy, happy love! �
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed � Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; �And, happy melodist, unwearied, � For ever piping songs for ever new; �More happy love! more happy, happy love! � For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, � For ever panting, and for ever young; �
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed � Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; �And, happy melodist, unwearied, � For ever piping songs for ever new; �More happy love! more happy, happy love! � For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, � For ever panting, and for ever young; �All breathing human passion far above, � That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, � A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. �
“Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth” from “Ode to a Nightingale”
Who are these coming to the sacrifice? �
Who are these coming to the sacrifice? � To what green altar, O mysterious priest, �Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, � And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? �
Who are these coming to the sacrifice? � To what green altar, O mysterious priest, �Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, � And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? �What little town by river or sea shore, � Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, � Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? �
And, little town, thy streets for evermore � Will silent be; and not a soul to tell � Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. �
�
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede � Of marble men and maidens overwrought, �With forest branches and the trodden weed; �
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede � Of marble men and maidens overwrought, �With forest branches and the trodden weed; � Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought �As doth eternity:
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede � Of marble men and maidens
overwrought, �With forest branches and the trodden weed; � Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of
thought �As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! �
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought �As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! � When old age shall this generation waste, �
�
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede � Of marble men and maidens overwrought, �With forest branches and the trodden weed; � Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought �As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! � When old age shall this generation waste, � Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe �Than ours, a friend to man,
�O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede � Of marble men and maidens overwrought, �With forest branches and the trodden weed; � Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought �As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! � When old age shall this generation waste, � Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe �Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, �
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all � Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
A Joy Forever