I had a professor at Tulane who could recite this poem with such passion that the entire class wept. He later went to prison. For an unrelated matter.
For one “whose name was writ in water,” as Keats thought of himself while dying, the short poet (never standing quite 5’) achieved immortality. Thanks for this gift.
The writer’s only responsibility is to his art,” the novelist wrote. “He will be completely ruthless if he is a good one. If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate; the ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’ is worth any number of old ladies.”
Hmmmm. This may justify THINGS!
Don’t know which I love more, seeing one of my favorite poems in your space or this sweet justification from Faulkner.
I too had a professor (Penn State) who recited this with such vigor and joy. I’ll really never forget it. It was a wonderful class, we covered Keats and Yeats, Shakespeare and Swift but also Pynchon. I actually wrote to him about 10 years after his class when I can across some papers from it, to thank him for the impact he had on me.
Solid share for a spring of beauty and renewal. Thanks Greg.
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?.....and maidens overwrought! Ahhh I wish! Ahhh Keats. If I had one candlelit dinner in the past it surely would be have been with him..... sigh. I have my white outfit all planed. Something slightly diaphanous but still redolent of the virginal soul that lives in all womanhood both young and old. Crystal at the ears and throat, red wine in a cloudy green glass, with the aroma of the communion rail in the air. Words, flowing, flying singing, and then coming to rest on a bough in my heart. However, on the other subject, sports. I want to get it, I really do. I went to games in my youth, Wrigley Field, Chicago, the late 50’s. I felt the buzz, the communal connection. But somehow at puberty I lost it all to pencil skirts and lipstick and never got it back. I have various male cohorts that are quite enthralled with teams of some sort and I nod and smile and try to care but really I just want to sneak off to my damsel den and watch Bridgerton over and over again and again. I wish I could understand the obsession about chasing after balls but I just can’t seem to get there anymore. Run, run, hit it, kick it, bounce it, fall down, do it again and again. It is a mystery to me now. And yet, as I gird my silken flanks for yet another day I am glad that the all the male creatures I care about,and females of a similar ilk, have something to entertain themselves with in slow times, and fast times, to find truth in beauty and beauty in truth, however the ball bounces.
I had a professor at Tulane who could recite this poem with such passion that the entire class wept. He later went to prison. For an unrelated matter.
For one “whose name was writ in water,” as Keats thought of himself while dying, the short poet (never standing quite 5’) achieved immortality. Thanks for this gift.
The writer’s only responsibility is to his art,” the novelist wrote. “He will be completely ruthless if he is a good one. If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate; the ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’ is worth any number of old ladies.”
Hmmmm. This may justify THINGS!
Don’t know which I love more, seeing one of my favorite poems in your space or this sweet justification from Faulkner.
You rock, my bae.
Such a great read. Out Loud
Thank you for this beautiful gift. I’ll carry it throughout my day.
I too had a professor (Penn State) who recited this with such vigor and joy. I’ll really never forget it. It was a wonderful class, we covered Keats and Yeats, Shakespeare and Swift but also Pynchon. I actually wrote to him about 10 years after his class when I can across some papers from it, to thank him for the impact he had on me.
Solid share for a spring of beauty and renewal. Thanks Greg.
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”
This is balm for a soul still sore from years where the opposite has been the norm.
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?.....and maidens overwrought! Ahhh I wish! Ahhh Keats. If I had one candlelit dinner in the past it surely would be have been with him..... sigh. I have my white outfit all planed. Something slightly diaphanous but still redolent of the virginal soul that lives in all womanhood both young and old. Crystal at the ears and throat, red wine in a cloudy green glass, with the aroma of the communion rail in the air. Words, flowing, flying singing, and then coming to rest on a bough in my heart. However, on the other subject, sports. I want to get it, I really do. I went to games in my youth, Wrigley Field, Chicago, the late 50’s. I felt the buzz, the communal connection. But somehow at puberty I lost it all to pencil skirts and lipstick and never got it back. I have various male cohorts that are quite enthralled with teams of some sort and I nod and smile and try to care but really I just want to sneak off to my damsel den and watch Bridgerton over and over again and again. I wish I could understand the obsession about chasing after balls but I just can’t seem to get there anymore. Run, run, hit it, kick it, bounce it, fall down, do it again and again. It is a mystery to me now. And yet, as I gird my silken flanks for yet another day I am glad that the all the male creatures I care about,and females of a similar ilk, have something to entertain themselves with in slow times, and fast times, to find truth in beauty and beauty in truth, however the ball bounces.