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Ode To A Nightingale - Poem by John Keats

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thy 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.

O for a draught of vintage, that hath been
Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new love pine at them beyond tomorrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Clustered around by all her starry fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain---
To thy high requiem become a sod

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:---do I wake or sleep?


Comments about Ode To A Nightingale by John Keats

  • Rookie - 179 Points Radhuga Sreekumar Geetha (12/31/2019 8:44:00 AM)

    Those lovely lines by my lovely poet (Report) Reply

    6 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Rookie Tommy (11/5/2019 4:26:00 PM)

    Why my pee pee hurt? ? ? (Report) Reply

    Rookie Chandler (5/21/2020 1:49:00 PM)

    really man you had to?

    | Delete this reply
    8 person liked.
    8 person did not like.
  • Rookie Bruno Mars (5/21/2019 3:09:00 PM)

    This mireda is pure bro this poem is so bad it makes me want to throw up. (Report) Reply

    Rookie Richard Ponsonby (1/18/2020 6:28:00 PM)

    If you want to vomit or empty your bowels just read Robert Frost, the moron who on his inheritance wandered around turning his banal experiences into mock epic events, or spoilt boy Leonard Cohen with money, but no talent self-promoted like PT Barnum

    | Delete this reply
    Rookie Richard Ponsonby (1/18/2020 6:25:00 PM)

    If you need to vomit, just read the megalomaniacal versifier, Robert Frost, who turns small events in his mundane life into pseudo epics, or if you're constipated, just read Leonard Cohen whose ego and lack of talent guarantees a sudden evacuation.

    | Delete this reply
    4 person liked.
    11 person did not like.
  • Gold Star - 93,517 Points Prabir Gayen (12/16/2018 9:41:00 PM)

    Most loved one...this poem made my world... (Report) Reply

    12 person liked.
    7 person did not like.
  • Gold Star - 25,122 Points Parameswaran Nair Damodaran Nair (9/24/2018 6:10:00 AM)

    Keats, the immortal nightingale is still singing for us (Report) Reply

    8 person liked.
    9 person did not like.
  • Rookie Qaisy (8/23/2018 4:23:00 AM)

    It’s a nice ode and it has a lot of lines and verses (Report) Reply

    8 person liked.
    12 person did not like.
  • Gold Star - 12,065 Points Cristobal Benjumea (8/2/2018 5:56:00 PM)

    KEATS The KING, giving hope to the world, and beauty, uninhibited tenderness (Report) Reply

    5 person liked.
    6 person did not like.
  • Rookie biswambar panda (7/15/2018 12:06:00 PM)

    Lovely and beautiful line by line I drank words born of melody filled syllables sung into sense (Report) Reply

    3 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
  • Gold Star - 11,630 Points Britte Ninad (5/30/2018 10:41:00 PM)

    Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
    Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

    ........

    Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain- -
    To thy high requiem become a sod

    ..........

    Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
    To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
    Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
    As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
    Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
    (Report) Reply

    3 person liked.
    4 person did not like.
  • Rookie sania (5/24/2018 12:20:00 PM)

    shorter plz this is no (Report) Reply

    4 person liked.
    7 person did not like.
Read all 50 comments »
Ode Poems
  1. 1. Ode To A Nightingale
    John Keats
  2. 2. Ode To Autumn
    John Keats
  3. 3. Ode On A Grecian Urn
    John Keats
  4. 4. Ode To The West Wind
    Percy Bysshe Shelley
  5. 5. Ode On Solitude
    Alexander Pope
  6. 6. Ode To Wine
    Pablo Neruda
  7. 7. Ode To Sadness
    Pablo Neruda
  8. 8. Ode To The Book
    Pablo Neruda
  9. 9. Ode To A Large Tuna In The Market
    Pablo Neruda
  10. 10. Ode To Salt
    Pablo Neruda
  11. 11. Ode To Maize
    Pablo Neruda
  12. 12. Ode On Intimations Of Immortality From R..
    William Wordsworth
  13. 13. Ode
    Joseph Addison
  14. 14. Ode To Neptune
    Phillis Wheatley
  15. 15. Dejection: An Ode
    Samuel Taylor Coleridge
  16. 16. Ode On Melancholy
    John Keats
  17. 17. Ode To Pity
    Jane Austen
  18. 18. Ode To A Loved One
    Sappho
  19. 19. Fragment Of An Ode To Maia
    John Keats
  20. 20. Ode To Meaning
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  21. 21. Ode To Psyche
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  22. 22. Ode
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  23. 23. Ode On Indolence
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  24. 24. Oxford Cheese Ode
    James McIntyre
  25. 25. Ode On The Death Of A Favourite Cat Drow..
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  26. 26. Ode To Fanny
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  27. 27. Ode To Silence
    Edna St. Vincent Millay
  28. 28. E.P. Ode Pour L'Election De Son Sepulchre
    Ezra Pound
  29. 29. Ode To Beauty
    Ralph Waldo Emerson
  30. 30. France: An Ode
    Samuel Taylor Coleridge
  31. 31. Plutonian Ode
    Allen Ginsberg
  32. 32. Ode To Duty
    William Wordsworth
  33. 33. Ode On The Mammoth Cheese
    James McIntyre
  34. 34. Ode On The Spring
    Thomas Gray
  35. 35. Uriconium: An Ode
    Wilfred Owen
  36. 36. Solitude: An Ode
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  37. 37. Ode Composed On A May Morning
    William Wordsworth
  38. 38. Ode
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  39. 39. Ode On A Distant Prospect Of Eton College
    Thomas Gray
  40. 40. Ode To Music
    Joseph Warton
  41. 41. Ode, Composed On A May Morning
    William Wordsworth
  42. 42. Ode To Being Five (Children)
    C.J. Heck
  43. 43. Despondency -- An Ode
    Robert Burns
  44. 44. Ode To H.H. The Nizam Of Hyderabad
    Sarojini Naidu
  45. 45. An Ode, On The Death Of Mr. Henry Purcell
    John Dryden
  46. 46. Ode
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  47. 47. Ode On Adversity
    Mary Darby Robinson
  48. 48. Music: An Ode
    Algernon Charles Swinburne
  49. 49. An Horatian Ode Upon Cromwell's Return F..
    Andrew Marvell
  50. 50. Recessional (A Victorian Ode)
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Ode Poems

  1. Ode On Solitude

    Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air, In his own ground. Whose heards with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire. Blest! who can unconcern'dly find Hours, days, and years slide soft away, In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day, Sound sleep by night; study and ease Together mix'd; sweet recreation, And innocence, which most does please, With meditation. Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Thus unlamented let me dye; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lye.

  2. Ode On A Grecian Urn

    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; 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; 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. 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; 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."

  3. Ode To Autumn

    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-eaves run; To bend with apples the mossed 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-brimmed their clammy cell. 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-reaped furrow sound asleep, Drowsed 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 cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, 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 bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

  4. Ode To The West Wind

    I O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odors plain and hill: Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh, hear! II Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread On the blue surface of thine aery surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height, The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, Vaulted with all thy congregated might Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh, hear! III Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day, All overgrown with azure moss and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves: oh, hear! IV If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even I were as in my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud. V Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawakened earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

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