By John Keats
'I imagine I will probably be one of the English Poets after my death,' John Keats soberly prophesied in 1818 as he began writing the blankverse epic Hyperion. this day he endures because the archetypal Romantic genius who explored the boundaries of the mind's eye and celebrated the pleasures of the senses yet suffered a sad early loss of life. Edmund Wilson counted him as 'one of the part dozen maximum English writers,' and T. S. Eliot has paid tribute to the Shakespearean caliber of Keats's greatness. certainly, his paintings has survived greater than that of any of his contemporaries the devaluation of Romantic poetry that begun early during this century. this contemporary Library variation includes all of Keats's outstanding verse: 'Lamia,' 'Isabella,' and 'The Eve of St. Agnes'; his sonnets and odes; the allegorical romance Endymion; and the five-act poetic tragedy Otho the Great. awarded besides are the recognized posthumous and fugitive poems, together with the fragmentary 'The Eve of Saint Mark' and the good 'La Belle Dame sans Merci,' possibly the main uncommon literary ballad within the language. 'No one else in English poetry, store Shakespeare, has in expression relatively the interesting felicity of Keats, his belief of loveliness,' stated Matthew Arnold. 'In the school of naturalistic interpretation, in what we name ordinary magic, he ranks with Shakespeare.'
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Extra resources for Complete Poems and Selected Letters of John Keats (Modern Library Classics)
Away they went, With blood upon their heads, to banishment. O depression, flip thine eyes away! O song, tune, breathe despondingly O Echo, Echo, on another day, From isles Lethean, sigh to us–O sigh! Spirits of grief, sing now not your ‘Well-a-way! ’ For Isabel, candy Isabel, will die; Will die a dying too lone and incomplete, Now they've got ta’en away her Basil candy. Piteous she look’d on lifeless and mindless issues, requesting her misplaced Basil amorously: And with melodious snort within the strings Of her lorn voice, she frequently might cry After the Pilgrim in his wanderings, to invite him the place her Basil used to be; and why ’Twas concealed from her: ‘For merciless ’tis,’ acknowledged she, ‘To scouse borrow my Basil-pot clear of me. ’ And so she pined, and so she died forlorn, Imploring for her Basil to the final. No center was once there in Florence yet did mourn In pity of her love, so overcast. And a tragic ditty of this tale borne From mouth to mouth via all of the nation pass’d: nonetheless is the burthen sung–‘O cruelty, To scouse borrow my Basil-pot clear of me! ’ The Eve of St. Agnes ST. AGNES’ Eve–Ah, sour sit back it used to be! The owl, for all his feathers, used to be a-cold; The hare limp’d trembling in the course of the frozen grass, And silent was once the flock in woolly fold: Numb have been the Beadsman’s hands whereas he instructed His rosary, and whereas his frosted breath, Like pious incense from a censer previous, Seem’d retreating for heaven, and not using a dying, prior the candy Virgin’s photo, whereas his prayer he saith. His prayer he saith, this sufferer, holy guy: Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, And again returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, alongside the chapel aisle through gradual levels: The sculptured useless, on either side, appear to freeze, Emprison’d in black, purgatorial rails: Knights, girls, praying in dumb orat’ries, He passeth by way of, and his susceptible spirit fails To imagine how they might pain in icy hoods and mails. Northward he turneth via a bit door, And scarce 3 steps, ere Music’s golden tongue Flatter’d to tears this elderly guy and terrible. yet no–already had his death-bell rung; the fun of all his lifestyles have been acknowledged and sung; His used to be harsh penance on St. Agnes’ Eve: in a different way he went, and shortly between tough ashes sat he for his soul’s reprieve, And all evening saved wakeful, for sinners’ sake to grieve. That historical Beadsman heard the prelude delicate; And so it chanced, for plenty of a door was once huge, From hurry backward and forward. quickly, up aloft, The silver, snarling trumpets ’gan to chide: the extent chambers, prepared with their satisfaction, have been sparkling to obtain one thousand visitors: The carvèd angels, ever eager-eyed, Stared, the place upon their heads the cornice rests, With hair blown again, and wings placed crosswise on their breasts. At size burst within the argent revelry, With plume, tiara, and all wealthy array, various as shadows haunting fairily The mind new-stuff’d, in adolescence, with triumphs homosexual Of outdated romance. those allow us to want away, and switch, sole-thoughted, to at least one woman there, Whose middle had brooded, all that wintry day, On love, and wing’d St.