{"id":196269,"url":"https://www.kudos365.com/news/196269-john-keats-s-ode-to-a-nightingale-1820","short_url":"https://www.kudos365.com/news/196269","headline":"John Keats’s “Ode to a Nightingale” (1820)","content":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eMy heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains\u003cbr\u003eMy sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,\u003cbr\u003eOr emptied some dull opiate to the drains\u003cbr\u003eOne minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:\u003cbr\u003e'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,\u003cbr\u003eBut being too happy in thine happiness,—\u003cbr\u003eThat thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees\u003cbr\u003eIn some melodious plot\u003cbr\u003eOf beechen green, and shadows numberless,\u003cbr\u003eSingest of summer in full-throated ease.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eO, for a draught of vintage! that hath been\u003cbr\u003eCool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,\u003cbr\u003eTasting of Flora and the country green,\u003cbr\u003eDance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!\u003cbr\u003eO for a beaker full of the warm South,\u003cbr\u003eFull of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,\u003cbr\u003eWith beaded bubbles winking at the brim,\u003cbr\u003eAnd purple-stained mouth;\u003cbr\u003eThat I might drink, and leave the world unseen,\u003cbr\u003eAnd with thee fade away into the forest dim:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFade far away, dissolve, and quite forget\u003cbr\u003eWhat thou among the leaves hast never known,\u003cbr\u003eThe weariness, the fever, and the fret\u003cbr\u003eHere, where men sit and hear each other groan;\u003cbr\u003eWhere palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,\u003cbr\u003eWhere youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;\u003cbr\u003eWhere but to think is to be full of sorrow\u003cbr\u003eAnd leaden-eyed despairs,\u003cbr\u003eWhere Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,\u003cbr\u003eOr new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAway! away! for I will fly to thee,\u003cbr\u003eNot charioted by Bacchus and his pards,\u003cbr\u003eBut on the viewless wings of Poesy,\u003cbr\u003eThough the dull brain perplexes and retards:\u003cbr\u003eAlready with thee! tender is the night,\u003cbr\u003eAnd haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,\u003cbr\u003eCluster'd around by all her starry Fays;\u003cbr\u003eBut here there is no light,\u003cbr\u003eSave what from heaven is with the breezes blown\u003cbr\u003eThrough verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI cannot see what flowers are at my feet,\u003cbr\u003eNor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,\u003cbr\u003eBut, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet\u003cbr\u003eWherewith the seasonable month endows\u003cbr\u003eThe grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;\u003cbr\u003eWhite hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;\u003cbr\u003eFast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;\u003cbr\u003eAnd mid-May's eldest child,\u003cbr\u003eThe coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,\u003cbr\u003eThe murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDarkling I listen; and, for many a time\u003cbr\u003eI have been half in love with easeful Death,\u003cbr\u003eCall'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,\u003cbr\u003eTo take into the air my quiet breath;\u003cbr\u003eNow more than ever seems it rich to die,\u003cbr\u003eTo cease upon the midnight with no pain,\u003cbr\u003eWhile thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad\u003cbr\u003eIn such an ecstasy!\u003cbr\u003eStill wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—\u003cbr\u003eTo thy high requiem become a sod.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!\u003cbr\u003eNo hungry generations tread thee down;\u003cbr\u003eThe voice I hear this passing night was heard\u003cbr\u003eIn ancient days by emperor and clown:\u003cbr\u003ePerhaps the self-same song that found a path\u003cbr\u003eThrough the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,\u003cbr\u003eShe stood in tears amid the alien corn;\u003cbr\u003eThe same that oft-times hath\u003cbr\u003eCharm'd magic casements, opening on the foam\u003cbr\u003eOf perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eForlorn! the very word is like a bell\u003cbr\u003eTo toll me back from thee to my sole self!\u003cbr\u003eAdieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well\u003cbr\u003eAs she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.\u003cbr\u003eAdieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades\u003cbr\u003ePast the near meadows, over the still stream,\u003cbr\u003eUp the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep\u003cbr\u003eIn the next valley-glades:\u003cbr\u003eWas it a vision, or a waking dream?\u003cbr\u003eFled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?\u003c/em\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003cem\u003eJohn Keats -\u003c/em\u003e\u003c/strong\u003e (1795-1821) English poet of the second generation of Romantic poets. He published only fifty-four poems during his short life time, having died of tuberculosis at the age of 25. Although his poems were indifferently received in his lifetime, his fame grew rapidly after his death. Today his poems and letters remain among the most popular and analyzed in English literature.\u003c/p\u003e","content_plain":"My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness painsMy sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,Or emptied some dull opiate to the drainsOne minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,But being too happy in thine happiness,—That thou, light-winged Dryad of the treesIn some melodious plotOf beechen green, and shadows numberless,Singest of summer in full-throated ease.O, for a draught of vintage! that hath beenCool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,Tasting of Flora and the country green,Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt 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 forgetWhat thou among the leaves hast never known,The weariness, the fever, and the fretHere, 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 sorrowAnd leaden-eyed despairs,Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.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,Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;But here there is no light,Save what from heaven is with the breezes blownThrough 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 sweetWherewith the seasonable month endowsThe grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;Fast fading violets cover'd 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 timeI have been half in love with easeful Death,Call'd 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 abroadIn 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 heardIn ancient days by emperor and clown:Perhaps the self-same song that found a pathThrough the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,She stood in tears amid the alien corn;The same that oft-times hathCharm'd magic casements, opening on the foamOf perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.Forlorn! the very word is like a bellTo toll me back from thee to my sole self!Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so wellAs she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fadesPast the near meadows, over the still stream,Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deepIn the next valley-glades:Was it a vision, or a waking dream?Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?John Keats - (1795-1821) English poet of the second generation of Romantic poets. He published only fifty-four poems during his short life time, having died of tuberculosis at the age of 25. Although his poems were indifferently received in his lifetime, his fame grew rapidly after his death. Today his poems and letters remain among the most popular and analyzed in English literature.","published_at":"2026-05-14T04:20:00-07:00","updated_at":"2026-05-14T04:21:01-07:00","author":{"type":"Person","name":"Poetry Alley","url":"https://www.kudos365.com/profiles/100043-poetry-alley"},"description":"Stay up-to-date with Poetry Alley on Kudos 365. View their photo published May/14/2026 on Poetry. Browse your favorite topics and share your expertise, too.","type":"photo","image":"https://k365fs.imgix.net/media/oQyZZ6znT1aQWL4Qfv6y_John_Keats_by_William_HiltonR.jpg?auto=compress,format\u0026fit=max\u0026w=1200\u0026h=1200\u0026q=48","likes_count":1,"comments_count":1,"categories":[{"name":"Poetry","url":"https://www.kudos365.com/categories/942-poetry"}],"schema":{"@context":"https://schema.org","@type":"CreativeWork","url":"https://www.kudos365.com/news/196269-john-keats-s-ode-to-a-nightingale-1820","headline":"John Keats’s “Ode to a Nightingale” (1820)","image":"https://k365fs.imgix.net/media/oQyZZ6znT1aQWL4Qfv6y_John_Keats_by_William_HiltonR.jpg?auto=compress,format\u0026fit=max\u0026w=1200\u0026h=1200\u0026q=48","author":{"@type":"Person","name":"Poetry Alley","url":"https://www.kudos365.com/profiles/100043-poetry-alley"},"datePublished":"2026-05-14T04:20:00-07:00","interactionStatistic":[{"@type":"InteractionCounter","interactionType":"https://schema.org/LikeAction","userInteractionCount":1}],"subjectOf":[{"@type":"Thing","name":"Poetry","url":"https://www.kudos365.com/categories/942-poetry"}]}}