"Ode to a Nightingale" by John Keats

Here at dogyard, we believe in literary heritage. There is a beauty in the work that we do; a baton that is handed to us from the previous generation. dogyard hopes to promote a sense of this through our series devised as The Boneyard, a series where one of our readers, editors, or contributors digs through the classics to find something that howls out to them. In today's edition, Emily McKenna grants you her insight to Keats. We hope this reading gives you a sense of belonging in a literary world where rejection and impostor syndrome run rampant. There are a million writers before us and a million after us, and we hope that you find your place of belonging and your sense of home whether that be a scrappy little yard or the beauty of your own, handcrafted journal where you store the next Ode.

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Before the Romantic period comes to a close, 1819 stands out as one of the greatest years of writing. Besides Shelley’s simultaneous improvement in this year, John Keats releases the Great Odes of 1819, reflecting his newfound meteoric ability. This flourishing strikes a great contrast against his sudden and premature death, which further underscores his mastery of learning and style at such a young age. Beyond his success in his younger years, unlike his contemporaries, Keats’ poetry can be read without a strong knowledge of romantic social history and intellectual culture. Keats’ distance makes him the perfect contender for audiences looking to ease into romantic poetry.

Narrowing in on his works, “Ode to a Nightingale” greatly reflects his ability to mimic his predecessors. This text is a work of contrasts; the old style meets the new, nature meets his scientific background, and the efforts of the nightingale contrast with the narrator’s own. As for style, writing with a Shakespearean quatrain and Petrarchan sestet creates an air of familiarity despite the freshness of his poem. Keats’ preparation for the medical field seeps into this poem through his ability to talk about the opiate’s influence on his own body and his references to nursing his brother. These ideas are stitched together by his experience of the outdoors, sitting below the plum tree to write these verses. As he writes of his inebriation, he emphasizes the oblivion to come with his carelessness, as the more he drinks the quicker he fades into “the forest dim” (line 20). On a similar note, Keats jumps into the poem with a contrast between the nightingale’s efforts and his own, as this carelessness is placed in contention with the “melodious plot” of the nightingale (line 8). The blending of these complex ideas are seamless despite the distance between the ideas, further speaking to Keats’ mastery of poetry.

Beyond his clear accomplishments as a writer, in “Ode to a Nightingale” I’ve found admiration for how he writes of the inner turmoils of pain alongside the external beauty of nature. One should not just read this poem as a whole piece, but pay attention to the progress within stanzas as Keats’ verses work through strife and the love of nature over and over again. If you don’t have a plum tree in your backyard, I’d suggest reading this poem in the shade of a southern Magnolia or Maple tree.

                                                                                                                                                                                      - Emily McKenna

Ode to a Nightingale 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 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.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been

          Cool'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 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 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 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 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 time

         I 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 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

          Charm'd 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 fam'd 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?