John Keats & Ode on a Grecian Urn
John keats
Bright star
• Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--No---yet still stedfast, still unchangeable, Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast, To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever---or else swoon to death. • 灿烂、轻盈，覆盖着洼地和 高山—— 呵，不，——我只愿坚 定不移地 以头枕在爱人酥软的胸 脯上， 永远感到它舒缓地降落、 升起； 而醒来，心里充满甜蜜 的激荡， 不断，不断听着她细腻 的呼吸， 就这样活着，——或昏 迷地死去。 查良铮 译
Major Literary Works
• In John Keats’ short writing career of six or seven years, he produced a variety of kinds of works, including epic, lyric and narrative poems. • Except his first poem, Lines in Imitation of Spenser (1814) and his first book, Poems, published in 1817, his major works can be divided into the five long poems and the short ones.
英美文学欣赏：JohnKeats
英美文学欣赏：John Keats英美文学欣赏：John KeatsJohn Keats (1795-1821)Born in London in 1795 in a lower-middle-class family; father the manager of a livery stables. Father died when he was 9 and his mother died of TB 6 years later. At 16 he left school and apprenticed to a surgeon. After four years apprenticeship he registered as a student at Guy’s Hospital. He began writing poetry in 1814, his first publication , a sonnet “ O Solitude” appeared in 1816. With the encouragement of his friend, he decided to abandon medicine and pursue a literary career. His first collection Poems appeared in 1817, followed by Endymion in 1818. In the summer of 1818 a walking tour with Charles Brown. Tom dying , nursed him until he died at the end of that year. During this time he met Fanny Brawne, engaged, but his plan to marry Fanny was thwarted by financial problem and illness. In the autumn of 1819 his health worsened. The last of the three volumes published during his lifetime, Lamia, Isabella, the Eve of St Agnes and Other Poems appeared in July of !820. In sep of the year went Italy. Died at 25, 23 Feb 1821 in Rome.Literary career:Very short, about 4 years, yet produced a variety of works, including epic, lyric, and narrative poems. His major achievement and also his most famous poems are a sequence of odes written around 1820.Major themes:Transience of beauty; the short-lived nature of beauty and happinessPleasure and pain: the relationship between them and thevalue of sufferingThe value of enduring art and the role of poetMyth and the supernaturalLove, his attitude to womenKeats learned the art of poetry mainly from the poets of the English Renaissance, such as Spenser and Shakespeare, from Milton and Dante. The artistic aim in his poetry is always to create a beautiful world of imagination as opposed to the sordid reality of his day. He sought to express beauty in all his poems. His leading principle is: “ Beauty is truth, truth beauty”. He expresses the delight which comes not only through the eye and earbut through the senses of touch, taste and smell. His poetry is distinguished by sensuousness and the perfection of form. Known as a sensuous poet.On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer.The first important poem of Keats, written in 1816 at 21. Written in the early morning following an evening spent with Clark; together they had read passages from the Iliad by Homer, translated by Chapman.1. realms of gold: In the old days, America was known as the land of gold where many adventurers went to make their fortune. Here “ the realms of gold” is a metaphor , referring to the realms of great books, chiefly of poetry.2. Western islands—imaginary islands in the western ocean, supposed by ancient Greeks to be very happy and pleasant places. Here refer to realms of great poetry.3. Deep-browed—with heavy and thick eyebrows, suggesting thoughtful or meditative.4. Pure serene—the clear, fresh, vigorous style of Homer.5. watcher of sky: Keats touches our own experience when hedescribes the awe and excitement of a sky watcher at the sight ofa new star;6. Cortez—a Spanish conqueror of Mexico(1485-1554). He cofused Cortez with Vasco Balboa , the Spanish navigator who discovered the Pacific at Darien in 1513.Bolboa and his followers climbed to the top of a hill in Darien and were amazed by the scene before their eyes: a vast ocean lay before them.。
济慈生平简介(英文版)及部分诗作
John Keats (1795-1821), renowned poet of the English Romantic Movement, wrote some of the greatest English language poems including "La Belle Dame Sans Merci", "Ode To A Nightingale", and "Ode On a Grecian Urn";O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with bredeOf marble men and maidens overwrought,With forest branches and the trodden weed;Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thoughtAs doth eternity: Cold pastoral!When old age shall this generation waste,Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woeThan ours, a friend to man, to whom thou sayst,"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is allYe know on earth, and all ye need to know."、John Keats was born on 31 October 1795 in Moorgate, London, England, the first child born to Frances Jennings (b.1775-d.1810) and Thomas Keats (d.1804), an employee of a livery stable. He had three siblings: George (1797-1841), Thomas (1799-1818), and Frances Mary "Fanny" (1803-1889). After leaving school in Enfield, Keats went on to apprentice with Dr. Hammond, a surgeon in Edmonton. After his father died in a riding accident, and his mother died of tuberculosis, John and his brothers moved to Hampstead. It was here that Keats met Charles Armitage Brown (1787-1842) who would become a great friend. Remembering his first meeting with him, Brown writes "His full fine eyes were lustrously intellectual, and beaming (at that time!)". Much grieved by his death, Brown worked for many years on his memoir and biography, Life of John Keats (1841). In it Brown claims that it was not until Keats read Edmund Spencer's Faery Queen that he realised his own gift for the poetic. Keats was an avid student in the fields of medicine and natural history, but he then turned his attentions to the literary works of such authors as William Shakespeare and Geoffrey Chaucer.Keats had his poems published in the magazines of the day at the encouragement of many including James Henry Leigh Hunt Esq. (1784-1859), editor of the Examiner and to whom Keats dedicated his first collection Poems (1817). It includes "To My Brother George", "O Solitude! If I Must With Thee Dwell", and "Happy is England! I Could Be Content". Upon its appearance a series of personal attacks directed at Keats ensued in the pages of Blackwood's Magazine. Despite the controversy surrounding his life, Keats's literary merit prevailed. That sameto stay with him and his family in Italy, he declined. When Shelley's body was washed ashore after drowning, a volume of Keats's poetry was found in his pocket.Having worked on it for many months, Keats finished his epic poem comprising four books, Endymion: A Poetic Romance--"A thing of beauty is a joy for ever"--in 1818. That summer he travelled to the Lake District of England and on to Ireland and Scotland on a walking tour with Brown. They visited the grave of Robert Burns and reminisced upon John Milton's poetry. While he was not aware of the seriousness of it, Keats was suffering from the initial stages of the deadly infectious disease tuberculosis. He cut his trip short and upon return to Hampstead immediately tended to his brother Tom who was then in the last stages of the disease. After Tom's death in December of 1818, Keats lived with Brown.Life of John Keats.Around this time Keats met, fell in love with, and became engaged to eighteen year old Frances "Fanny" Brawne (1800-1865). He wrote one of his more famous sonnets to her titled "Bright Star, would I were steadfast as thou art". While their relationship inspired much spiritual development for Keats, it also proved to be tempestuous, filled with the highs and lows from jealousy and infatuation of first love. Brown was not impressed and tried to provide some emotional stability to Keats. Many for a time were convinced that Fanny was the cause of his illness, or, used that as an excuse to try to keep her away from him. For a while even Keats entertained the possibility that he was merely suffering physical manifestations of emotional anxieties--but after suffering a hemorrhage he gave Fanny permission to break their engagement. She would hear nothing of it and by her word provided much comfort to Keats in his last days that she was ultimately loyal to him.Although 1819 proved to be his most prolific year of writing, Keats was also in dire financial straits. His brother George had borrowed money he could ill-afford to part with. His earning Fanny's mother's approval to marrydepended on his earning as a writer and he started plans with his publisher John Taylor (1781-1864) for his next volume of poems. At the beginning of 1820 Keats started to show more pronounced signs of the deadly tuberculosis that had killed his mother and brother. After a lung hemorrhage, Keats calmly accepted his fate, and he enjoyed several weeks of respite under Brown's watchful eye. As was common belief at the time that bleeding a patient was beneficial to healing, Keats was bled and given opium to relieve his anxiety and pain. He was at times put on a starvation diet, then at other times prescribed to eat meat and drink red wine to gain strength. Despite these ill-advised good-intentions, and suffering increasing weakness and fever, Keats was able to emerge from his fugue and organise the publication of his next volume of poetry.Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. Agnes, and Other Poems (1820) includes some of his best-known and oft-quoted works: "Hyperion", "To Autumn", and "Ode To A Nightingale". "Nightingale" evokes all the pain and suffering that Keats experienced during his short life-time: the death of his mother; the physical anguish he saw as a young apprentice tending to the sick and dying at St. Guy's Hospital; the death of his brother; and ultimately his own physical and spiritual suffering in love and illness. Keats lived to see positive reviews of Lamia, even in Blackwood's magazine. But the positivity was not to last long; Brown left for Scotland and the ailing Keats lived with Hunt for a time. But it was unbearable to him and only exacerbated his condition--he was unable to see Fanny, so, when he showed up at the Brawne's residence in much emotional agitation, sick, and feverish, they could not refuse him. He enjoyed a month with them, blissfully under the constant care of his beloved Fanny. Possibly bolstered by his finally having unrestricted time with her, and able to imagine a happy future with her, Keats considered his last hope of recovery of a rest cure in the warm climes of Italy. As a parting gift Fanny gave him a piece of marble which she had often clasped to cool her hand. In September of 1820 Keats sailed to Rome with friend and painter Joseph Severn (1793-1879, who was unaware of his circumstances with Fanny and the gravity of his health.Keats put on a bold front but it soon became apparent to Severn that he was terminally ill. They stayed in rooms on the Piazza Navona near the Spanish Steps, and enjoyed the lively sights and sounds of the people and culture, but Keats soon fell into a deep depression. When his attending doctor James Clark (1788-1870) finally voiced aloud the grim prognosis, Keats's medical background came to the fore and he longed to end his life and avoid the humiliating physical and mental torments of tuberculosis. By early 1821 he was confined to bed, Severn a devoted nurse. Keats had resolved not to write to Fanny and would not read a letter from her for fear of the pain it would cause him, although he constantly clasped her marble. During bouts of coughing, fever, nightmares, Keats also tried to cheer his friend, who held him till the end.John Keats died on 23 February 1821 in Rome, Italy, and now rests in the Protestant Cemetery in Rome, by the pyramid of Caius Cestius, near his friend Shelley. His epitaph reads "Here lies one whose name was writ in water", inspired by the line "all your better deeds, Shall be in water writ" from Francis Beaumont (1584-1616) and John Fletcher's (1579-1625) five act play Philaster or: Love Lies A-bleeding. Just a year later, Shelley was buried in the same cemetery, not long after he had written "Adonais" (1821) in tribute to his friend;I weep for Adonais--he is dead!O, weep for Adonais! though our tearsThaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!And thou, sad Hour, selected from all yearsTo mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers,And teach them thine own sorrow, say: "With meDied Adonais; till the Future daresForget the Past, his fate and fame shall beAn echo and a light unto eternity!"Fanny Brawne married in 1833 and died at the age of sixty-five. English poet and friend of Brown's, Richard Monckton Milnes (1809-1885) wrote Life, Letters, and Literary Remains of John Keats (1848). During his lifetime and since, John Keats inspired numerous other authors, poets, and artists, and remains one of the most widely read and studied 19th century poets.Biography written by C. D. Merriman for Jalic Inc. Copyright Jalic Inc. 2007. All Rights Reserved.Works：长篇叙事诗Endymion《恩底弥翁》;The Eve of St.Agnes《圣艾格尼丝节前夜》;Lamia《拉米亚》;（颂诗）Ode to Psyche《普赛克颂》;《希腊古瓮颂》Sleep and Poetry《睡与诗》"As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete Was unto me, but why that I ne might Rest I ne wist, for there n'as erthly wight[As I suppose] had more of hertis ese Than I, for I n'ad sicknesse nor disese."CHAUCER.What is more gentle than a wind in summer? What is more soothing than the pretty hummer That stays one moment in an open flower,And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower?What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowing In a green island, far from all men's knowing? More healthful than the leafiness of dales?More secret than a nest of nightingales?More serene than Cordelia's countenance?More full of visions than a high romance? What, but thee Sleep? Soft closer of our eyes! Low murmurer of tender lullabies!Light hoverer around our happy pillows! Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows! Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses!Most happy listener! when the morning blesses Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyesThat glance so brightly at the new sun-rise. But what is higher beyond thought than thee? Fresher than berries of a mountain tree?More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal,Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle?What is it? And to what shall I compare it?It has a glory, and nought else can share it:The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy, Chacing 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 whisperingOf all the secrets of some wond'rous thingThat breathes about us in the vacant air;So that we look around with prying stare,Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial lymning,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. Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice,And from the heart up-springs, rejoice! rejoice! Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things, And die away in ardent mutterings.No one who once the glorious sun has seen,And all the clouds, and felt his bosom cleanFor his great Maker's presence, but must know What 'tis I mean, and feel his being glow:Therefore no insult will I give his spirit,By telling what he sees from native merit.O Poesy! for thee I hold my penThat am not yet a glorious denizenOf thy wide heaven--Should I rather kneelUpon some mountain-top until I feelA glowing splendour round about me hung,And echo back the voice of thine own tongue?O Poesy! for thee I grasp my penThat am not yet a glorious denizenOf thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer, Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air, Smoothed for intoxication by the breathOf flowering bays, that I may die a deathOf luxury, and my young spirit followThe morning sun-beams to the great ApolloLike a fresh sacrifice; or, if I can bearThe o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring to me the fair Visions of all places: a bowery nookWill be elysium--an eternal bookWhence I may copy many a lovely sayingAbout the leaves, and flowers--about the playing Of nymphs in woods, and fountains; and the shade Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid;And many a verse from so strange influenceThat we must ever wonder how, and whenceIt came. Also imaginings will hoverRound my fire-side, and haply there discover Vistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wanderIn happy silence, like the clear meanderThrough its lone vales; and where I found a spot Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot,Or a green hill o'erspread with chequered dressOf flowers, and fearful from its loveliness,Write on my tablets all that was permitted,All that was for our human senses fitted.Then the events of this wide world I'd seizeLike a strong giant, and my spirit teazeTill at its shoulders it should proudly seeWings to find out an immortality. Stop and consider! life is but a day;A fragile dew-drop on its perilous wayFrom a tree's summit; a poor Indian's sleep While his boat hastens to the monstrous steepOf Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan?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.O for ten years, that I may overwhelmMyself in poesy; so I may do the deedThat my own soul has to itself decreed.Then will I pass the countries that I seeIn long perspective, and continuallyTaste their pure fountains. 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 biteAs hard as lips can make it: till agreed,A lovely tale of human life we'll read.And one will teach a tame dove how it bestMay fan the cool air gently o'er my rest; Another, bending o'er her nimble tread,Will set a green robe floating round her head, And still will dance with ever varied case,Smiling upon the flowers and the trees:Another will entice me on, and onThrough almond blossoms and rich cinnamon;Till in the bosom of a leafy worldWe rest in silence, like two gems upcurl'dIn the recesses of a pearly shell.And can I ever bid these joys farewell?Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life,Where I may find the agonies, the strifeOf human hearts: for lo! I see afar,O'er sailing the blue cragginess, a carAnd steeds with streamy manes--the charioteer Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear:And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly Along a huge cloud's ridge; and now with sprightly Wheel downward come they into fresher skies,Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright eyes. Still downward with capacious whirl they glide, And now I see them on a green-hill's sideIn breezy rest among the nodding stalks.The charioteer with wond'rous gesture talksTo the trees and mountains; and there soon appear Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear,Passing along before a dusky spaceMade by some mighty oaks: as they would chase Some ever-fleeting music on they sweep.Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep: Some with upholden hand and mouth severe; Some with their faces muffled to the earBetween their arms; some, clear in youthful bloom, Go glad and smilingly, athwart the gloom;Some looking back, and some with upward gaze; Yes, thousands in a thousand different waysFlit onward--now a lovely wreath of girlsDancing their sleek hair into tangled curls;And now broad wings. Most awfully intentThe driver, of those steeds is forward bent,And seems to listen: O that I might knowAll that he writes with such a hurrying glow.The visions all are fled--the car is fledInto the light of heaven, and in their steadA sense of real things comes doubly strong,And, like a muddy stream, would bear alongMy soul to nothingness: but I will striveAgainst all doublings, and will keep aliveThe thought of that same chariot, and the strange Journey it went.Is there so small a rangeIn the present strength of manhood, that the high Imagination cannot freely flyAs she was wont of old? prepare her steeds, Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds Upon the clouds? Has she not shewn us all? From the clear space of ether, to the small Breath of new buds unfolding? From the meaning Of Jove's large eye-brow, to the tender greening Of April meadows? Here her altar shone,E'en in this isle; and who could paragonThe fervid choir that lifted up a noiseOf harmony, to where it aye will poiseIts mighty self of convoluting sound,Huge as a planet, and like that roll round, Eternally around a dizzy void?Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy'd With honors; nor had any other careThan to sing out and sooth their wavy hair.Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a schism Nurtured by foppery and barbarism,Made great Apollo blush for this his land.Men were thought wise who could not understand His glories: with a puling infant's forceThey sway'd about upon a rocking horse,And thought it Pegasus. Ah dismal soul'd!The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll'dIts gathering waves--ye felt it not. The blue Bared its eternal bosom, and the dewOf summer nights collected still to makeThe morning precious: beauty was awake!Why were ye not awake? But ye were deadTo things ye knew not of,--were closely wedTo musty laws lined out with wretched ruleAnd compass vile: so that ye taught a schoolOf dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit,Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit,Their verses tallied. Easy was the task:A thousand handicraftsmen wore the maskOf Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race!That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face, And did not know it,--no, they went about, Holding a poor, decrepid standard outMark'd with most flimsy mottos, and in largeThe name of one Boileau!O ye whose chargeIt is to hover round our pleasant hills!Whose congregated majesty so fillsMy boundly reverence, that I cannot traceYour hallowed names, in this unholy place,So near those common folk; did not their shames Affright you? Did our old lamenting Thames Delight you? Did ye never cluster roundDelicious Avon, with a mournful sound,And weep? Or did ye wholly bid adieuTo regions where no more the laurel grew?Or did ye stay to give a welcomingTo some lone spirits who could proudly singTheir youth away, and die? 'Twas even so:But let me think away those times of woe:Now 'tis a fairer season; ye have breathedRich benedictions o'er us; ye have wreathedFresh garlands: for sweet music has been heardIn many places;--some has been upstirr'dFrom out its crystal dwelling in a lake,By a swan's ebon bill; from a thick brake,Nested and quiet in a valley mild,Bubbles a pipe; fine sounds are floating wildAbout the earth: happy are ye and glad.These things are doubtless: yet in truth we've had Strange thunders from the potency of song; Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong, From majesty: but in clear truth the themesAre ugly clubs, the Poets PolyphemesDisturbing the grand sea. A drainless showerOf light is poesy; 'tis the supreme of power;'Tis might half slumb'ring on its own right arm. The very archings of her eye-lids charmA thousand willing agents to obey,And still she governs with the mildest sway:But strength alone though of the Muses bornIs 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 endOf poesy, that it should be a friendTo sooth the cares, and lift the thoughts of man. Yet I rejoice: a myrtle fairer thanE'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weedsLifts its sweet head into the air, and feedsA silent space with ever sprouting green.All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen, Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering, Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing.Then let us clear away the choaking thornsFrom round its gentle stem; let the young fawns, Yeaned in after times, when we are flown,Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrownWith simple flowers: let there nothing beMore boisterous than a lover's bended knee; Nought more ungentle than the placid lookOf one who leans upon a closed book;Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopes Between two hills. All hail delightful hopes!As she was wont, th' imaginationInto most lovely labyrinths will be gone,And they shall be accounted poet kingsWho simply tell the most heart-easing things.O may these joys be ripe before I die.Will not some say that I presumptuouslyHave spoken? that from hastening disgrace'Twere better far to hide my foolish face?That whining boyhood should with reverence bow Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach? How!If I do hide myself, it sure shall beIn the very fane, the light of Poesy:If I do fall, at least I will be laidBeneath the silence of a poplar shade;And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven; And there shall be a kind memorial graven.But oft' Despondence! miserable bane!They should not know thee, who athirst to gain A noble end, are thirsty every hour.What though I am not wealthy in the dowerOf spanning wisdom; though I do not knowThe shiftings of the mighty winds, that blow Hither and thither all the changing thoughtsOf man: though no great minist'ring reason sorts Out the dark mysteries of human soulsTo clear conceiving: yet there ever rollsA vast idea before me, and I gleanTherefrom my liberty; thence too I've seenThe end and aim of Poesy. 'Tis clearAs any thing most true; as that the yearIs made of the four seasons--manifestAs a large cross, some old cathedral's crest, Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore should IBe but the essence of deformity,A coward, did my very eye-lids winkAt speaking out what I have dared to think.Ah! rather let me like a madman runOver some precipice; let the hot sunMelt my Dedalian wings, and drive me down Convuls'd and headlong! Stay! an inward frown Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile.An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle, Spreads awfully before me. How much toil!How many days! what desperate turmoil!Ere I can have explored its widenesses.Ah, what a task! upon my bended knees,I could unsay those--no, impossible! Impossible!For sweet relief I'll dwellOn humbler thoughts, and let this strange assay Begun in gentleness die so away.E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades:I turn full hearted to the friendly aidsThat smooth the path of honour; brotherhood, And friendliness the nurse of mutual good.The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet Into the brain ere one can think upon it;The silence when some rhymes are coming out; And when they're come, the very pleasant rout: The message certain to be done to-morrow.'Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrow Some precious book from out its snug retreat, To cluster round it when we next shall meet. Scarce can I scribble on; for lovely airsAre fluttering round the room like doves in pairs; Many delights of that glad day recalling,When first my senses caught their tender falling. 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.Thus I remember all the pleasant flowOf words at opening a portfolio.Things such as these are ever harbingersTo trains of peaceful images: the stirsOf a swan's neck unseen among the rushes:A linnet starting all about the bushes:A butterfly, with golden wings broad parted, Nestling a rose, convuls'd as though it smarted With over pleasure--many, many more,Might I indulge at large in all my storeOf luxuries: yet I must not forgetSleep, quiet with his poppy coronet:For what there may be worthy in these rhymes I partly owe to him: and thus, the chimesOf friendly voices had just given placeTo as sweet a silence, when I 'gan retraceThe pleasant day, upon a couch at ease.It was a poet's house who keeps the keysOf pleasure's temple. Round about were hung The glorious features of the bards who sungIn other ages--cold and sacred bustsSmiled at each other. Happy he who trustsTo clear Futurity his darling fame!Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aim At swelling apples with a frisky leapAnd reaching fingers, 'mid a luscious heapOf vine leaves. Then there rose to view a fane Of liny marble, and thereto a trainOf nymphs approaching fairly o'er the sward: One, loveliest, holding her white band toward The dazzling sun-rise: two sisters sweet Bending their graceful figures till they meet Over the trippings of a little child:And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping.See, in another picture, nymphs are wipingCherishingly Diana's timorous limbs;--A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swimsAt the bath's edge, and keeps a gentle motionWith the subsiding crystal: as when oceanHeaves calmly its broad swelling smoothiness o'er Its rocky marge, and balances once moreThe patient weeds; that now unshent by foamFeel all about their undulating home.Sappho's meek head was there half smiling downAt nothing; just as though the earnest frownOf over thinking had that moment goneFrom off her brow, and left her all alone.Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pitying eyes,As if he always listened to the sighsOf the goaded world; and Kosciusko's wornBy horrid suffrance--mightily forlorn.Petrarch, outstepping from the shady green,Starts at the sight of Laura; nor can weanHis eyes from her sweet face. Most happy they!For over them was seen a free displayOf out-spread wings, and from between them shone The face of Poesy: from off her throneShe overlook'd things that I scarce could tell.The very sense of where I was might wellKeep Sleep aloof: but more than that there came Thought after thought to nourish up the flame Within my breast; so that the morning light Surprised me even from a sleepless night;And up I rose refresh'd, and glad, and gay, Resolving to begin that very dayThese lines; and howsoever they be done,I leave them as a father does his son. Ode to a Nightingale《夜莺颂》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 thy happiness, -That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,In some melodious plotOf beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.O for a draught of vintage! that hath beenCooled a long age in the deep-delved earth,Tasting of Flora and the country-green,Dance, and Provencal 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 brimAnd 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 grey 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 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 lightSave 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 endowsThe 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 childThe 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,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 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!。
keats描写时光的诗歌
约翰·济慈（John Keats）是英国19世纪著名的浪漫主义诗人之一，他的诗歌作品主题广泛，其中一些作品涉及了对时光的描写。
以下是一首济慈描写时光的诗歌：
《秋颂》
（一）
露水晶莹的八月早晨，
饱经风霜的岁月已尽，
熠熠闪耀的金色秋分，
丰收的季节已来临。
（二）
夕阳洒下柔和的光辉，
在田野上挥别夏日，
沉甸甸的果实垂头丧气，
沐浴着金黄的秋意浓。
（三）
采摘吧，欢庆吧，你们人类，
品尝那甜美的葡萄佳酿，
畅饮那芳香醇厚的醇酒，
在丰收的季节里欢唱。
（四）
夜幕即将降临的时刻，
晚霞映照着天边残云，
收获的人们归去的路上，
留下的是明月的清辉光。
（五）
时光荏苒不停歇，
季节更迭亦如斯，
让我们珍惜每一个时刻，把握美好的金秋时光。
John Keats
Laபைடு நூலகம்ia 《莱米亚》
Hyperion 《赫坡里昂》
Isabella
. Isabella, a young girl
of a rich family, was in love with a poor servant called Lorenzo.
• Her two brothers, having discovered the love affair, tricked Lorenzo away, murdered him and buried him in a forest.
两个意象的交叉
被欢欣感染
•
被欢欣感染
给诗人伤痛
诗人的“心痛”
夜莺的“欢欣 ”
希腊古瓮颂
诗人济慈从古希腊艺术获取灵 感，经过想象力的再创造，在读者
眼前展现出一幅意象鲜明、色彩斑
斓的风景画；同时，诗人又以激情 奔放的诗句歌颂这瓮上的画。真正 做到了诗中有画，画中有诗，不愧 为传世佳作。
Ode on a Grecian Urn (希腊古瓮颂）
John Keats
• 1795-1821 • English romantic poet. • He is considered as one of the greatest English poets.
In 1795,he born in a poor family,2 brothers and 1 sister In 1804,his father died
Hyperion
• It was considered by Keats's contemporaries to be his greatest achievement, but by that time he had reached an advanced stage of his disease and was too ill to be encouraged. It was never finished.
John Keats 约翰 济慈
1. 《夜莺颂》的主题表达了夜莺不朽与美妙的歌 声。全诗笼罩在一片幽暗之中，我们可以听到它 的歌声却见不到它的身影，这就更突出了夜莺的 精神特性。 2. 《夜莺颂》的主题表达了审美体验的短暂性与 欺骗性。诗人对莺歌德反映是麻木 （drowsynumbness）,眩晕（intoxication）,幻觉 和对死亡的渴求。——当然，这是诗后面所提到 的 3. 《夜莺颂》的主题表达了审美体验中两种相悖 的因素和情感。对夜莺的歌声，诗人既感到喜悦 （esctatic）又感到悲哀(plaintive)。我们看到的一 方面是夜莺的不朽与欢快，一方面则是人生的短 暂与痛苦。
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! 永生的鸟,你不会死去 No hungry generations tread thee down; 饿的世代无法将你蹂躏 The voice I hear this passing night eas heard 今夜,我偶然听到的歌曲 In ancient days by emperor and clown: 当使古代的帝王和村夫喜悦 Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 或许这同样的歌也曾激荡 Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 露丝忧郁的心,使她不禁落泪 She stood in tears amid the alien corn; 站在异邦的谷田里想著家 The same that oft-times hath 就是这声音常常 Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam 在失掉了的仙域里引动窗扉 Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 一个美女望著大海险恶的浪花 Forlorn! the very word is like a bell 失掉了,这句话好比一声钟 To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 使我猛省到我站脚的地方 Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well 别了!幻想,这骗人的妖童 As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 不能老耍弄它盛传的伎俩 Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 别了!别了!你怨诉的歌声 Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 流过草坪,越过幽静的溪水 Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep 溜上山坡,而此时它正深深 In the next valley-glades: 埋在附近的溪谷中 Was is a vision, or a waking dream? 这是个幻觉,还是梦寐 Fled is that music -- Do I wake or sleep? 那歌声去了-我是睡?是醒?
John_Keats
JohnKeats could and Fanny Brawn Keats not afford to support a wife, Because
they kept the engagement a secret from all but their closest friends. Keats wrote her a flood of notes and letters till March 1820. In a letter he wrote, I have vex'd you too much. But for Love! Can I help it? You are always new. The last of your kisses was ever the gracefullest. When you pass'd my window home yesterday, I was filled with as much admiration as if I had then seen you for the first time. You uttered a half complaint once that I only lov'd your Beauty. Have I nothing else then to
3. Short Poems
(1) On a Grecian Urn，“希腊 古 瓮颂”.
Keats was born in London on October 31, 1795 as the son of a livery-stable manager. He was the oldest of four children, who remained deeply devoted to each other. After their father died in 1804, Keats's mother remarried but the marriage was soon broken. She moved with the children, John and his sister Fanny and brothers George and Tom, to live with her mother at Edmonton, near London. She died of tuberculosis in 1810.
John Keats
John KeatsJohn Keats (31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821) was an English Romantic poet. He was one of the main figures of the second generation of Romantic poets along with Lord Byron and Percy Bysshe Shelley, despite his work only having been in publication for four years before his death.1. Brief Introduction to the AuthorJohn Keats (1795-1821) was born in London & educated at the Clarke‘s School. At 15, he left school and was apprenticed to a surgeon, Thomas Hammond. Subsequently from 1815 to 1816, Keats studied medicine at Guy‘s Hospital in London. But he left this profession very soon. He read much of Spenser, Milton and Homer. It was Spenser who awakened in Keats his dormant poetic gift, and the first verses which he wrote were in imitation of the Elizabethan Poetry. Besides the classical elements, Hunt, the radical journalist and minor poet, was a vital influence on the early Keats, cultivating him with a taste for liberal politics as well as for the fine arts.Keats‘s first important poem ―On first Looking into Chapman‘s Homer‖was published in 1816 in the paper, Examiner, run by Hunt. In 1817, he published his first volume of poems. In 1818, a poem based on the Greek myth of Endymion and the moon goddess, Endymion, was published. From 1818 to 1820, Keats reached the summit of his poetic creation. In July 1820, the third & best of his volumes of poetry, Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. Agnes, and Other Poems, was published. Keats died in Rome on February 23,1821.Although his poems were not generally well received by critics during his life, his reputation grew after his death, so that by the end of the 19th century he had become one of the most beloved of all English poets. He had a significant influence on a diverse range of poets and writers. Jorge Luis Borges stated that his first encounter with Keats was the most significant literary experience of his life.The poetry of Keats is characterized by sensual imagery, most notably in the series of odes. Today his poems and letters are some of the most popular and most analyzed in English literature.2. His Major Poetic WorksThe odes are generally regarded as Keats‘s most important & mature works. Their subject matter, however, is the poet‘s abiding preoccupation with the imagination as it reaches out to union with the beautiful. In the greatest of these works and he also suggests the undercurrent of disillusion that accompanies such ecstasy, the human suffering which forever questions the visionary transcendence achieved by art.1) “Ode to a Nightingale”It expresses the contrast between the happy world of natural loveliness and human world of agony. Here the aching ecstasy roused by the bird‘s song is felt like a form of spiritual homesickness, a longing to be at one with beauty. The poem first introduces joy and sorrow, song and music. Death and rapture which free him into the world of dream. By combining a tingling anticipation with a lapsing towards dissolution, Keats manages to keep a precarious balance between mirth & despair, rapture and grief. Inspired by the nightingale‘s song, his thoughts now ascend from the transfigured physical world, through the imagined ecstasy of death, to the timeless present of the nightingale‘s song. The ultimate imaginative view of ―faery lands forlorn‖evaporates in its extremity as the full associations of the word ―toll‖the poet back from hisnear-loss of self-hood to the real and human world of sorrow and death.2) “Ode on an Grecian Urn”It shows the contrast between the permanence of art and the transience of human passion. The poet has absorbed himself into the timeless beautiful scenery on the antique Grecian Urn: the lovers, musicians and worshippers on the Urn exist simultaneously and for ever in their intensity of joy. They are unaffected by time, stilled in expectation. This is at once the glory and the limitation of the world conjured up by an object of art. The urn celebrates but simplifies intuitions of ecstasy by seeming to deny our painful knowledge of transience & suffering.3) EndymionEndymion was a poem based on the Greek myth of Endymion and the moon goddess. In this poem, Keats described his imagination in an enchanted atmosphere –a lovely moon-lit world where human love and ideal beauty were merged into one. Endymion marked a transitional phase in Keats‘s poetry, though he himself was not satisfied with it.4) IsabellaIn July 1820，the third & best of his volumes of poetry, Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. Ages, and Other Poems, was published, The three title poems all deal with mythical & legendary themes of ancient, medieval, and Renaissance times. At the heart of these poems lies Keats‘s concern with how the ideal can be joined with the real, the imagined with the actual and man with woman.3. Characteristics of Keats’s PoetryKeats‘s poetry is always sensuous, colorful & rich in imagery, which expresses the acuteness of his senses. Sight, sound, scent, taste and feeling are all used to give an entire understanding of an experience. He has the power of entering the feelings of others-either human or animal. With vivid and rich images, he paints poetic pictures full of wonderful color. Keats‘s poetry, characterized by exact and closely-knit construction, sensual descriptions, and by force in imagination, gives transcendental values to the physical beauty of the world.4. Selected Readings1) Ode to a Nightingale―Ode to a Nightingale‖ is a poem by John Keats written in May 1819 in either the garden of the Spaniards Inn, Hampstead, London, or, according to Keats‘ friend Charles Armitage Brown, under a plum tree in the garden of Keats House, also in Hampstead. According to Brown, a nightingale had built its nest near his home in the spring of 1819. Inspired by the bird‘s song, Keats composed the poem in one day. It soon became one of his 1819 odes and was first published in Annals of the Fine Arts the following July. ―Ode to a Nightingale‖is a personal poem that describes Keats‘s journey into the state of Negative Capability. The tone of the poem rejects the optimistic pursuit of pleasure found within Keats‘s earlier poems and explores the themes of nature, transience and mortality, the latter being particularly personal to Keats.The nightingale described within the poem experiences a type of death but does not actually die. Instead, the songbird is capable of living through its song, which is a fate that humans cannot expect. The poem ends with an acceptance that pleasure cannot last and that death is an inevitable part of life. In the poem, Keats imagines the loss of the physical world and sees himself dead—as a ―sod‖over which the nightingale sings. The contrast between the immortal nightingale and mortal man, sitting in his garden, is made all the more acute by an effort of the imagination. Thepresence of weather is noticeable in the poem, as spring came early in 1819, bringing nightingales all over the heath. Many critics favor ―Ode to a Nightingale‖ for its themes but some believe that it is structurally flawed because the poem sometimes strays from its main idea.Ode to a NightingaleMy 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?To Autumn秋颂John Keats约翰·济慈/著查良铮/译1.Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,雾气洋溢、果实圆熟的秋，Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;你和成熟的太阳成为友伴；Conspiring with him how to load and bless你们密谋用累累的珠球，With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;缀满茅屋檐下的葡萄藤蔓；To bend with apples the moss‘d cottage-trees,使屋前的老树背负着苹果，And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;让熟味透进果实的心中，To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells使葫芦胀大，鼓起了榛子壳，With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,好塞进甜核；又为了蜜蜂And still more, later flowers for the bees,一次一次开放过迟的花朵，Until they think warm days will never cease,使它们以为日子将永远暖和，For Summer has o‘er-brimm‘d their clammy cells.因为夏季早填满它们的粘巢。
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John Keats
Productive Years 1817-1821
Winter of 1817:George Keats married and emigrated to America, leaving the consumptive brother Tom to John's care. Apart from helping Tom against consumption, Keats worked on his poem "Endymion". Just before its publication, he went on a hiking tour to Scotland and Ireland with his friend Charles Brown. First signs of his own fatal disease forced him to return prematurely, where he found his brother seriously ill and his poem harshly criticized. Dec. 1818 :Tom Keats died. John moved to Hampstead Heath, where he lived in the house of Charles Brown. While in Scotland with Keats, Brown had lent his house to a Mrs. Browne and her sixteen-year-old daughter Fanny. Since the ladies were still living in London, Keats soon made their acquaintance and fell in love with the beautiful, fashionable girl. Absorbed in love and poetry, he exhausted himself mentally. Autumn of 1819: he tried to gain some distance to literature through an ordinary occupation.
呵，幸福的树木！你的枝叶 不会剥落，从不曾离开春天； 幸福的吹笛人也不会停歇， 他 的歌 曲 永 远 是那 么 新 鲜； 呵，更为幸福的、幸福的爱！ 永远热烈，正等待情人宴飨， 永远热情地心跳，永远年轻； 幸福的是这一切超凡的情态： 它不会使心灵餍足和悲伤， 没有炽热的头脑，焦渴的嘴唇。
Ode on a Grecian Urn
Ode on a Grecian Urn
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 highsorg forehead, and a parching tongue.
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? 你委身“寂静”的、完美的处子， 受过了“沉默”和“悠久” 的抚育， 呵，田园的史家，你竟能铺叙 一个如花的故事，比诗还瑰丽： 在你的形体上，岂非缭绕着 古老的传说，以绿叶为其边缘； 讲着人，或神，敦陂或阿卡 呵，是怎样的人，或神！在舞乐前 多热烈的追求！少女怎样 地逃躲！ 怎样的风笛和鼓谣！ 怎样的狂喜！
John Keats
Illness and Death 1820-1821 An unmistakable sign of consumption in February 1820 however broke all his plans for the future, marking the beginning of what he called his "posthumous life". He could not enjoy the positive resonance on the publication of the volume "Lamia, Isabella &c.", including his most celebrated odes. In the late summer of 1820, Keats was ordered by his doctors to avoid the English winter and move to Italy. His friend Joseph Severn accompanied him south first to Naples, and then to Rome. His health improved momentarily, only to collapse finally. Keats died in Rome on the 23rd of February, 1821. He was buried on the Protestant Cemetery, near the grave of Caius Cestius. On his desire, the following lines were engraved on his tombstone: "Here lies one whose name was writ in water."
Ode on a Grecian Urn
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. 哦，希腊的形状！唯美的观照！ 上面缀有石雕的男人和 女人， 还有林木，和践踏过的青 草； 沉默的形体呵，你象是 “永恒” 使人超越思想：呵，冰冷 的牧歌！ 等暮年使这一世代都凋 落， 只有你如旧；在另外 的一些 忧伤中，你会抚慰后人 说： “美即是真，真即是美，” 这就包括 你们所知道、和该 知道的一切。
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. 这些人是谁呵，都去赶祭祀？ 这作牺牲的小牛，对天鸣 叫， 你要牵它到哪儿，神秘的祭 司？ 花环缀满着它光滑的身腰。 是从哪个傍河傍海的小镇， 或哪个静静的堡寨山村， 来了这些人，在这敬神 的清早？ 呵，小镇，你的街道永远恬 静； 再也不可能回来一个灵魂 告诉人你何以是这么寂 寥。
John Keats & Ode on a Grecian Urn
By Nie Zhouyan
*About John Keats
*Translation of Ode on a Grecian Urn
*Analysis of the ode
John Keats
Background Oct.31st,1795:born in Finsbury Pavement near London 1810:became an orphan and taken from school to be an apprentice to a surgeon by his new guardians 1814: left his master and became a hospital student in London. 1814: sacrificed his medical ambitions to a literary life. 1816: published his first poem in a magazine. 1817:published about thirty poems and sonnets printed in the volume "Poems".