Sleep and poetry. Sleep And Poetry Poem by John Keats 2022-11-15
Sleep and poetry Rating:
Sleep and poetry are two seemingly unrelated subjects, but upon closer examination, one can see that they are actually intertwined in a number of ways. Both sleep and poetry have the ability to transport us to other worlds, to provide solace and comfort, and to offer a sense of escape from the stresses and distractions of daily life. In this essay, we will explore the ways in which sleep and poetry intersect and how they can be used to enhance each other.
One of the most obvious ways in which sleep and poetry are connected is through the use of language. Poetry is, by definition, a type of literature that uses language in a particular way to create rhythm, imagery, and emotion. Sleep, on the other hand, is a state of unconsciousness that is often associated with relaxation and rejuvenation. The language used in poetry and the state of sleep both have the ability to transport us to other worlds, whether it be through the use of vivid imagery and symbolism in poetry, or through the dreamlike state that sleep can induce.
Both sleep and poetry also have the ability to provide solace and comfort. Poetry has long been used as a way to express and cope with emotions, and many people find that reading or writing poetry can be therapeutic. Similarly, sleep is often seen as a way to escape from the stresses and worries of daily life. It provides a chance to rest and recharge, and can help to reduce feelings of anxiety and depression.
Finally, sleep and poetry can be used to enhance each other in a number of ways. For example, reading poetry before bed can help to relax the mind and prepare for sleep. Poetry can also serve as a form of mental distraction, which can be helpful for those who have trouble falling asleep due to racing thoughts. On the other hand, a good night's sleep can help to improve cognitive function, including memory and creativity, which can in turn enhance one's ability to appreciate and understand poetry.
In conclusion, sleep and poetry may seem like unrelated subjects, but they are actually closely connected through their shared ability to transport us to other worlds, provide solace and comfort, and offer a sense of escape from the stresses of daily life. By incorporating both into our daily routine, we can enhance our overall well-being and find greater enjoyment in the beauty and power of language.
Sleep And Poetry
But what is higher beyond thought than thee? Round about were hung The glorious features of the bards who sung In other ages — cold and sacred busts Smiled at each other. Then I will pass the countries that I see In long perspective, and continually 100 Taste their pure fountains. Sappho's meek head was there half smiling down At nothing; just as though the earnest frown Of over thinking had that moment gone From off her brow, and left her all alone. Could all this be forgotten? You do not need a bed of down To give you sleep at night. The charioteer with wond'rous gesture talks To the trees and mountains; and there soon appear Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear, Passing along before a dusky space Made by some mighty oaks: as they would chase Some ever-fleeting music on they sweep. For sin and pain and passion and all ills That tear the unshielded weakness of our souls; The power that bids us suffer gives us sleep; And he that says he has no faith lies down, And in all faith resigns his soul to sleep; Sure of the morning and the light again, Forth ebbs the soul upon the tide of dreams. Fresher than berries of a mountain tree? Scarce can I scribble on; for lovely airs Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs; Many delights of that glad day recalling, When first my senses caught their tender falling.
O may these joys be ripe before I die. That shall aurora be East of eternity; One with the banner gay, One in the red array, — That is the break of day. The lark is silent in his nest, The breeze is sighing in its flight, Sleep, Love, and peaceful be thy rest. Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice, And from the heart up-springs, rejoice! We shall sleep but we shall waken, Jesus slept, and woke before; We shall sleep and we shall waken When our silent sleep is o'er; On the stillness of our slumbers Shall break forth that music deep From glad hosts in countless numbers When He wakes us from our sleep. Therefore should I Be but the essence of deformity, A coward, did my very eye-lids wink At speaking out what I have dared to think.
How still the dancer lies, While color's revelations break, And blaze the butterflies! Will not some say that I presumptuously Have spoken? What is more soothing than the pretty hummer That stays one moment in an open flower, And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower? Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things, And die away in ardent mutterings. That whining boyhood should with reverence bow Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach? For over them was seen a free display Of out-spread wings, and from between them shone The face of Poesy: from off her throne She overlook'd things that I scarce could tell. Soft Low Light Wreather of Silent Most Thee for That But what is Fresher than More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal, Than What is it? Easy was the task: A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask Of Poesy. Also imaginings will hover Round my Vistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wander In happy silence, like the clear Meander Through its lone vales; and where I found a spot Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot, Or a green hill o'erspread with chequer'd dress Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness, Write on my tablets all that was permitted, All that was for our human senses fitted. More strange, more Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle? But ye were dead To things ye knew not of,- were closely wed To musty laws lined out with wretched rule And compass vile: so that ye taught a school Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit, Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit, Their verses tallied. It has a glory, and naught else can share it: The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy, Chasing away all worldliness and folly; Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder, Or the low rumblings earth's regions under; And sometimes like a gentle whispering Of all the secrets of some wond'rous thing That breathes about us in the vacant air; So that we look around with prying stare, Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial limning, And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymning; To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended, That is to crown our name when life is ended. Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows! More healthful than the leafiness of dales? His twilight feet no sandals wore, His eyes shone faint in their own flame, Fair moths that gloomed his steps before Seemed letters of his lovely name.
Then the events of this wide world I'd seize Like a strong giant, and my spirit teaze Till at its shoulders it should proudly see Wings to find out an immortality. Light hoverer around our happy pillows! Light hoverer around our happy pillows! Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things, And die away in ardent mutterings. More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal, Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle? O for ten years, that I may overwhelm Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed That my own soul has to itself decreed. First the realm I'll pass Of Flora, and old Pan: sleep in the grass, Feed upon apples red, and strawberries, And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees; Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places, To woo sweet kisses from averted faces,- Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders white Into a pretty shrinking with a bite As hard as lips can make it: till agreed, A lovely tale of human life we'll read. An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle, Spreads awfully before me.
Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown; The reading of an ever-changing tale; The light uplifting of a maiden's veil; A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air; A laughing school-boy, without grief or care, Riding the springy branches of an elm. Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy'd With honors; nor had any other care Than to sing out and sooth their wavy hair. Sleep and Poetry was written in 1816 but first published in this full form in the Poetical Works of John Keats, 1884. Thus I remember all the pleasant flow Of words at opening a portfolio. Here are ten of the greatest poems about sleep from all of English literature. Till the rosy morning Wakes them with its beams. Easy was the task: A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask Of Poesy.
That whining boyhood should with reverence bow Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach? Could all this be forgotten? Ere I can have explored its widenesses. She left the rosy morn, She left the fields of corn, For twilight cold and lorn And water springs. All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen, Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering, Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing. Easy was the task: A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask Of Poesy. From the clear space of ether, to the small Breath of new buds unfolding? The squalling cat and the squeaking mouse, The howling dog by the door of the house, The bat that lies in bed at noon, All love to be out by the light of the moon. More healthful than the leafiness of dales? I have to go to bed and see The birds still hopping on the tree, Or hear the grown-up people's feet Still going past me in the street.
31. Sleep and Poetry. Keats, John. 1884. The Poetical Works of John Keats
All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen, Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering, Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing. Led by a single star, She came from very far To seek where shadows are Her pleasant lot. Sail, sail, my chiming shell! The visions all are fled—the car is fled Into the light of heaven, and in their stead A sense of real things comes doubly strong, And, like a muddy stream, would bear along My soul to nothingness: but I will strive Against all doubtings, and will keep alive The thought of that same chariot, and the strange Journey it went. More full of visions than a high romance? Soft closer of our eyes! Fresher than berries of a mountain tree? What is more soothing than the pretty hummer That stays one moment in an open flower, And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower? And with these airs come forms of elegance Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's prance, Careless, and grand-fingers soft and round Parting luxuriant curls;- and the swift bound Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye Made Ariadne's cheek look blushingly. Low murmurer of tender lullabies! Hadst thou broached Thy little plan to me, Dissuade thee if I could not, sweet, I might have aided thee. .
Or did ye stay to give a welcoming To some lone spirits who could proudly sing Their youth away, and die? An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle, Spreads awfully before me. The very archings of her eye-lids charm A thousand willing agents to obey, And still she governs with the mildest sway: But strength alone though of the Muses born Is like a fallen angel: trees uptorn, Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres Delight it; for it feeds upon the burrs, And thorns of life; forgetting the great end Of poesy, that it should be a friend To sooth the cares, and lift the thoughts of man. Now the darkness gathers, Stars begin to peep; Birds, and beasts, and flowers Soon will be asleep. Good-night, my love, good-night, good-night. Therefore should I Be but the essence of deformity, A coward, did my very eye-lids wink At speaking out what I have dared to think. Yes, a schism Nurtured by foppery and barbarism, Made great Apollo blush for this his land.
Could all this be forgotten? The charioteer with wond'rous gesture talks To the trees and mountains; and there soon appear Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear, Passing along before a dusky space Made by some mighty oaks: as they would chase Some ever- fleeting music on they sweep. Yes, a schism Nurtured by foppery and barbarism, Made great Apollo blush for this his land. Why were ye not awake? Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses! O for ten years, that I may overwhelm Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed That my own soul has to itself decreed. More secret than a nest of nightingales? More secret than a nest of nightingales? And to what shall I compare it? Thus I remember all the pleasant flow Of words at opening a portfolio. Through the long night-watches, May thine angels spread Their white wings above me, Watching round my bed.
Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aim At swelling apples with a frisky leap And reaching fingers, 'mid a luscious heap Of vine-leaves. Whose congregated majesty so fills My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace Your hallowed names, in this unholy place, So near those common folk; did not their shames Affright you? Now falls the night, down-sifting through the air Lulled waftures of soft-dripping silences; And slumber-breathing darkness shrouds thine eyes. Those who plan some evil From their sin restrain. Jesus, give the weary Calm and sweet repose; With thy tenderest blessing May our eyelids close. Round about were hung 355 The glorious features of the bards who sung In other ages—cold and sacred busts Smiled at each other. The poem contains more than one notable sideswipe at literary contemporaries, such as. Has she not shewn us all? A counterpane of pink and brown And pillow soft and white You do not need a pretty room All dressed in dainty blue.