- published: 16 Aug 2011
- views: 705845
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HDHDHDHD. YOU WON'T REGRET IT.
30 Min. making this, 2 hours rendering in Full HD, 1 1/2 hours uploading it. I also upped the bass a little to give his voice a little boom. /like it needed it. So uh Enjoy his face and voice. :)
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?
Ode to a Nightingale
By John Keats 1795 --1821
Read by Benedict Cumberbatch
Music: Adagietto from Symphony No. 5 composer G. Mahler
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
Cooled 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-strained 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 specter-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 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 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 covered 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,
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 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 emperors and clown;
Perhaps the selfsame 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 ofttimes hath
Charmed 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 famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hilside; 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?
- published: 31 Jan 2014
- views: 11460
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-wingèd 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-delvèd 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-stainèd 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 grey 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 embalmèd 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 musèd 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 ofttimes 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 famed 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?
JOHN KEATS (1795-1821)
- published: 27 Oct 2012
- views: 61321
A reading and analysis--stanza by stanza of this poem. The annotation notes are visible.
- published: 16 Apr 2013
- views: 12375
I barely managed to squeeze this in under 15 minutes. Last time I tried to upload this, YouTube wouldn't let me since it was about seven minutes longer than this. I did another take, though, and managed to eek this out in time.
Feedback is much appreciated. I tried to stay focused in this, but it's very easy for me to get distracted with tangential manners, so I hope I didn't wander too much. I'm hoping increased experience will help me improve over the course of time.
Thank you for watching! If you liked this, I'll have more stuff prepared in the near future, so feel free to stick around and post your thoughts below (I can only hit on so much in fifteen minutes, after all)
- published: 11 Oct 2012
- views: 5590
What is Keats' poem about, and why is it one of the greatest poems ever written?
http://www.gresham.ac.uk/lectures-and-events/poetry-immortality-john-keats-ode-to-a-nightingale
‘Thou wast not born for Death! immortal bird/ No hungry generations tread thee down.’
Keats’ ‘Ode to a Nightingale’ contains these curious lines. How can a bird be ‘immortal’? The poem is partly about immortality, but how does its complex poetic web work?
The transcript and downloadable versions of the lecture are available from the Gresham College website: http://www.gresham.ac.uk/lectures-and-events/poetry-immortality-john-keats-ode-to-a-nightingale
Gresham College has been giving free public lectures since 1597. This tradition continues today with all of our five or so public lectures a week being made available for free download from our website. There are currently over 1,800 lectures free to access or download from the website.
Website: http://www.gresham.ac.uk
Twitter: http://twitter.com/GreshamCollege
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/greshamcollege
- published: 04 Jun 2015
- views: 4834
One of John Keats's lovely poems: Ode to a Nightingale.
Recited by Benedict Cumberbatch, using his most soothing voice...
- published: 20 Dec 2014
- views: 6457
Stephen Fry reading John Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale’ for the free online ‘Literature and Mental Health: Reading for Wellbeing’ course. Find out more about this course on https://www.futurelearn.com/courses/literature/
- published: 08 Jan 2016
- views: 1565
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 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 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 toil 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?
- published: 14 Mar 2012
- views: 12974
Music composed by Mark Bradshaw.
I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING.
Bright Star (2009). Starring Ben Whishaw and Abbie Cornish.
- published: 01 May 2014
- views: 5732
Benedict☆Cumberbatch read Ode to a nightingale by John Keats.
Oda a un ruiseñor:
Me duele el corazón y aqueja un soñoliento
torpor a mis sentidos, cual si hubiera bebido
cicuta o apurado algún fuerte narcótico
ahora mismo, y me hundiese en el Leteo:
no porque sienta envidia de tu sino feliz,
sino por excesiva ventura en tu ventura,
tú que, Dríada alada de los árboles,
en alguna maraña melodiosa
de los verdes hayales y las sombras sin cuento,
a plena voz le cantas al estío.
¡Oh! ¡Quién me diera un sorbo de vino, largo tiempo
refrescado en la tierra profunda,
sabiendo a Flora y a los campos verdes,
a danza y canción provenzal y a soleada alegría!
¡Quién un vaso me diera del Sur cálido,
colmado de hipocrás rosado y verdadero,
con bullir en su borde de enlazadas burbujas
y mi boca de púrpura teñida;
beber y, sin ser visto, abandonar el mundo
y perderme contigo en las sombras del bosque!
A lo lejos perderme, disiparme, olvidar
lo que entre ramas no supiste nunca:
la fatiga, la fiebre y el enojo de donde,
uno a otro, los hombres, en su gemir, se escuchan,
y sacude el temblor postreras canas tristes;
donde la juventud, flaca y pálida, muere;
donde, sólo al pensar, nos llenan la tristeza
y esas desesperanzas con párpados de plomo;
donde sus ojos claros no guarda la hermosura
sin que, ya al otro día, los nuble un amor nuevo.
¡Perderme lejos, lejos! Pues volaré contigo,
no en el carro de Baco y con sus leopardos,
sino en las invisibles alas de la Poesía,
aunque la mente obtusa vacile y se detenga.
¡Contigo ya! Tierna es la noche
y tal vez en su trono esté la Luna Reina
y, en torno, aquel enjambre de estrellas, de sus Hadas;
pero aquí no hay más luces
que las que exhala el cielo con sus brisas, por ramas
sombrías y senderos serpenteantes, musgosos.
Entre sombras escucho; y si yo tantas veces
casi me enamoré de la apacible Muerte
y le di dulces nombres en versos pensativos,
para que se llevara por los aires mi aliento
tranquilo; más que nunca morir parece amable,
extinguirse sin pena, a medianoche,
en tanto tú derramas toda el alma
en ese arrobamiento.
Cantarías aún, mas ya no te oiría:
para tu canto fúnebre sería tierra y hierba.
Pero tú no naciste para la muerte, ¡oh, pájaro inmortal!
No habrá gentes hambrientas que te humillen;
la voz que oigo esta noche pasajera, fue oída
por el emperador, antaño, y por el rústico;
tal vez el mismo canto llegó al corazón triste
de Ruth, cuando, sintiendo nostalgia de su tierra,
por las extrañas mieses se detuvo, llorando;
el mismo que hechizara a menudo los mágicos
ventanales, abiertos sobre espumas de mares
azarosos, en tierras de hadas y de olvido.
¡De olvido! Esa palabra, como campana, dobla
y me aleja de ti, hacia mis soledades.
¡Adiós! La fantasía no alucina tan bien
como la fama reza, elfo de engaño.
¡Adiós, adiós! Doliente, ya tu himno se apaga
más allá de esos prados, sobre el callado arroyo,
por encima del monte, y luego se sepulta
entre avenidas del vecino valle.
¿Era visión o sueño?
Se fue ya aquella música. ¿Despierto? ¿Estoy dormido?
- published: 20 Jan 2012
- views: 104933
"Ode to a Nightingale" is a poem by John Keats written in May 1819 in either the garden of the Spaniards Inn, Hampstead, or, as according to Keats' friend Charles Armitage Brown, under a plum tree in the garden of Keats House, Hampstead, London. 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 it 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 it 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. The presence of weather is noticeable in the poem, as spring came early in 1819, which brought 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 strayed from its main idea.
This page contains text from Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia -
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ode_to_a_Nightingale
This article is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License, which means that you can copy and modify it as long as the entire work (including additions) remains under this license.
This article is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License, which means that you can copy and modify it as long as the entire work (including additions) remains under this license.
Benedict Timothy Carlton Cumberbatch (born 19 July 1976) is an English film, television, radio and theatre actor. His most acclaimed roles include Stephen Hawking in the BBC drama Hawking (2004); William Pitt in the historical film Amazing Grace (2006); the protagonist Stephen Ezard in the miniseries thriller The Last Enemy (2008); Paul Marshall in Atonement (2007); Bernard in Small Island (2009); Sherlock Holmes in the modern BBC adaptation series Sherlock (2010); and Peter Guillam in the spy thriller Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011).
In February 2011, he began playing both Victor Frankenstein and his creature opposite Jonny Lee Miller in Danny Boyle's stage adaptation of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. The play had a three-month run at the National Theatre. In late 2011, he played Major Stewart in Steven Spielberg's War Horse (2011). The film received five BAFTA nominations and six Academy Award nominations, including the Best Picture nomination in 2012. He also played Peter Guillam, one of the pivotal roles in Tomas Alfredson's Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy (2011), which was nominated for three Academy Awards and 11 BAFTA Awards. Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy was also nominated for Best Picture in 2012.
This page contains text from Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia -
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Benedict_Cumberbatch
This article is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License, which means that you can copy and modify it as long as the entire work (including additions) remains under this license.
This article is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License, which means that you can copy and modify it as long as the entire work (including additions) remains under this license.
Stephen John Fry (born 24 August 1957) is an English actor, screenwriter, author, playwright, journalist, poet, comedian, television presenter, film director, and a director of Norwich City Football Club.
After a troubled childhood and adolescence, during which he was expelled from a number of schools and eventually spent three months in prison for credit card fraud, he was able to secure a place at Queens' College, Cambridge, where he studied English Literature.
He first came to public attention in the 1981 Cambridge Footlights Revue presentation "The Cellar Tapes", which also included Hugh Laurie, Emma Thompson and Tony Slattery. With Hugh Laurie, as the comedy double act Fry and Laurie, he co-wrote and co-starred in A Bit of Fry & Laurie, and took the role of Jeeves (with Laurie playing Wooster) in Jeeves and Wooster.
As an actor, Fry played the lead in the film Wilde, was Melchett in the BBC television series Blackadder, starred as the title character Peter Kingdom in the ITV series Kingdom, has a recurring guest role as Dr. Gordon Wyatt on the Fox crime series Bones and appeared as rogue TV host Gordon Deitrich in the dystopian thriller V For Vendetta. He has also written and presented several documentary series including the 2008 television series Stephen Fry in America, which saw him travelling across all 50 US states. Since 2003 he has been the host of the quiz show QI.
This page contains text from Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia -
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stephen_Fry
This article is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License, which means that you can copy and modify it as long as the entire work (including additions) remains under this license.
This article is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License, which means that you can copy and modify it as long as the entire work (including additions) remains under this license.
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5:36John Keats- Ode to a Nightingale
John Keats- Ode to a NightingaleJohn Keats- Ode to a Nightingale
HDHDHDHD. YOU WON'T REGRET IT. 30 Min. making this, 2 hours rendering in Full HD, 1 1/2 hours uploading it. I also upped the bass a little to give his voice a little boom. /like it needed it. So uh Enjoy his face and voice. :) 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? -
5:23Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats
Ode to a Nightingale by John KeatsOde to a Nightingale by John Keats
Ode to a Nightingale By John Keats 1795 --1821 Read by Benedict Cumberbatch Music: Adagietto from Symphony No. 5 composer G. Mahler 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 Cooled 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-strained 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 specter-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 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 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 covered 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, 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 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 emperors and clown; Perhaps the selfsame 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 ofttimes hath Charmed 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 famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hilside; 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? -
5:23Ode to a Nightingale - Ben Whishaw Bright Star
Ode to a Nightingale - Ben Whishaw Bright StarOde to a Nightingale - Ben Whishaw Bright Star
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-wingèd 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-delvèd 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-stainèd 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 grey 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 embalmèd 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 musèd 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 ofttimes 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 famed 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? JOHN KEATS (1795-1821) -
6:34Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats: A Reading, Annotation, and Analysis pt 1 of 2
Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats: A Reading, Annotation, and Analysis pt 1 of 2Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats: A Reading, Annotation, and Analysis pt 1 of 2
A reading and analysis--stanza by stanza of this poem. The annotation notes are visible. -
14:47Ode to a Nightingale -- Analysis
Ode to a Nightingale -- AnalysisOde to a Nightingale -- Analysis
I barely managed to squeeze this in under 15 minutes. Last time I tried to upload this, YouTube wouldn't let me since it was about seven minutes longer than this. I did another take, though, and managed to eek this out in time. Feedback is much appreciated. I tried to stay focused in this, but it's very easy for me to get distracted with tangential manners, so I hope I didn't wander too much. I'm hoping increased experience will help me improve over the course of time. Thank you for watching! If you liked this, I'll have more stuff prepared in the near future, so feel free to stick around and post your thoughts below (I can only hit on so much in fifteen minutes, after all) -
49:45Poetry and Immortality: John Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale' - Professor Belinda Jack
Poetry and Immortality: John Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale' - Professor Belinda JackPoetry and Immortality: John Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale' - Professor Belinda Jack
What is Keats' poem about, and why is it one of the greatest poems ever written? http://www.gresham.ac.uk/lectures-and-events/poetry-immortality-john-keats-ode-to-a-nightingale ‘Thou wast not born for Death! immortal bird/ No hungry generations tread thee down.’ Keats’ ‘Ode to a Nightingale’ contains these curious lines. How can a bird be ‘immortal’? The poem is partly about immortality, but how does its complex poetic web work? The transcript and downloadable versions of the lecture are available from the Gresham College website: http://www.gresham.ac.uk/lectures-and-events/poetry-immortality-john-keats-ode-to-a-nightingale Gresham College has been giving free public lectures since 1597. This tradition continues today with all of our five or so public lectures a week being made available for free download from our website. There are currently over 1,800 lectures free to access or download from the website. Website: http://www.gresham.ac.uk Twitter: http://twitter.com/GreshamCollege Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/greshamcollege -
5:36Benedict Cumberbatch Reciting John Keats's Ode to a Nightingale
Benedict Cumberbatch Reciting John Keats's Ode to a NightingaleBenedict Cumberbatch Reciting John Keats's Ode to a Nightingale
One of John Keats's lovely poems: Ode to a Nightingale. Recited by Benedict Cumberbatch, using his most soothing voice... -
5:15Stephen Fry reading John Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale’
Stephen Fry reading John Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale’Stephen Fry reading John Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale’
Stephen Fry reading John Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale’ for the free online ‘Literature and Mental Health: Reading for Wellbeing’ course. Find out more about this course on https://www.futurelearn.com/courses/literature/ -
5:34Ode to a Nightingale, John Keats (Reading)
Ode to a Nightingale, John Keats (Reading)Ode to a Nightingale, John Keats (Reading)
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 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 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 toil 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? -
5:25Bright Star OST - 09.Ode to a Nightingale (Original Soundtrack)
Bright Star OST - 09.Ode to a Nightingale (Original Soundtrack)Bright Star OST - 09.Ode to a Nightingale (Original Soundtrack)
Music composed by Mark Bradshaw. I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING. Bright Star (2009). Starring Ben Whishaw and Abbie Cornish. -
5:19Ode To A Nightingale-John Keats,read by Robert Donat
Ode To A Nightingale-John Keats,read by Robert Donat -
5:36Benedict☆Cumberbatch ☆ Ode to a nightingale
Benedict☆Cumberbatch ☆ Ode to a nightingaleBenedict☆Cumberbatch ☆ Ode to a nightingale
Benedict☆Cumberbatch read Ode to a nightingale by John Keats. Oda a un ruiseñor: Me duele el corazón y aqueja un soñoliento torpor a mis sentidos, cual si hubiera bebido cicuta o apurado algún fuerte narcótico ahora mismo, y me hundiese en el Leteo: no porque sienta envidia de tu sino feliz, sino por excesiva ventura en tu ventura, tú que, Dríada alada de los árboles, en alguna maraña melodiosa de los verdes hayales y las sombras sin cuento, a plena voz le cantas al estío. ¡Oh! ¡Quién me diera un sorbo de vino, largo tiempo refrescado en la tierra profunda, sabiendo a Flora y a los campos verdes, a danza y canción provenzal y a soleada alegría! ¡Quién un vaso me diera del Sur cálido, colmado de hipocrás rosado y verdadero, con bullir en su borde de enlazadas burbujas y mi boca de púrpura teñida; beber y, sin ser visto, abandonar el mundo y perderme contigo en las sombras del bosque! A lo lejos perderme, disiparme, olvidar lo que entre ramas no supiste nunca: la fatiga, la fiebre y el enojo de donde, uno a otro, los hombres, en su gemir, se escuchan, y sacude el temblor postreras canas tristes; donde la juventud, flaca y pálida, muere; donde, sólo al pensar, nos llenan la tristeza y esas desesperanzas con párpados de plomo; donde sus ojos claros no guarda la hermosura sin que, ya al otro día, los nuble un amor nuevo. ¡Perderme lejos, lejos! Pues volaré contigo, no en el carro de Baco y con sus leopardos, sino en las invisibles alas de la Poesía, aunque la mente obtusa vacile y se detenga. ¡Contigo ya! Tierna es la noche y tal vez en su trono esté la Luna Reina y, en torno, aquel enjambre de estrellas, de sus Hadas; pero aquí no hay más luces que las que exhala el cielo con sus brisas, por ramas sombrías y senderos serpenteantes, musgosos. Entre sombras escucho; y si yo tantas veces casi me enamoré de la apacible Muerte y le di dulces nombres en versos pensativos, para que se llevara por los aires mi aliento tranquilo; más que nunca morir parece amable, extinguirse sin pena, a medianoche, en tanto tú derramas toda el alma en ese arrobamiento. Cantarías aún, mas ya no te oiría: para tu canto fúnebre sería tierra y hierba. Pero tú no naciste para la muerte, ¡oh, pájaro inmortal! No habrá gentes hambrientas que te humillen; la voz que oigo esta noche pasajera, fue oída por el emperador, antaño, y por el rústico; tal vez el mismo canto llegó al corazón triste de Ruth, cuando, sintiendo nostalgia de su tierra, por las extrañas mieses se detuvo, llorando; el mismo que hechizara a menudo los mágicos ventanales, abiertos sobre espumas de mares azarosos, en tierras de hadas y de olvido. ¡De olvido! Esa palabra, como campana, dobla y me aleja de ti, hacia mis soledades. ¡Adiós! La fantasía no alucina tan bien como la fama reza, elfo de engaño. ¡Adiós, adiós! Doliente, ya tu himno se apaga más allá de esos prados, sobre el callado arroyo, por encima del monte, y luego se sepulta entre avenidas del vecino valle. ¿Era visión o sueño? Se fue ya aquella música. ¿Despierto? ¿Estoy dormido?
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John Keats- Ode to a Nightingale
HDHDHDHD. YOU WON'T REGRET IT. 30 Min. making this, 2 hours rendering in Full HD, 1 1/2 hours uploading it. I also upped the bass a little to give his voice a little boom. /like it needed it. So uh Enjoy his face and voice. :) 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 Pro... -
Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats
Ode to a Nightingale By John Keats 1795 --1821 Read by Benedict Cumberbatch Music: Adagietto from Symphony No. 5 composer G. Mahler 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 Cooled 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 b... -
Ode to a Nightingale - Ben Whishaw Bright Star
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-wingèd 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-delvèd 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 pur... -
Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats: A Reading, Annotation, and Analysis pt 1 of 2
A reading and analysis--stanza by stanza of this poem. The annotation notes are visible. -
Ode to a Nightingale -- Analysis
I barely managed to squeeze this in under 15 minutes. Last time I tried to upload this, YouTube wouldn't let me since it was about seven minutes longer than this. I did another take, though, and managed to eek this out in time. Feedback is much appreciated. I tried to stay focused in this, but it's very easy for me to get distracted with tangential manners, so I hope I didn't wander too much. I'm hoping increased experience will help me improve over the course of time. Thank you for watching! If you liked this, I'll have more stuff prepared in the near future, so feel free to stick around and post your thoughts below (I can only hit on so much in fifteen minutes, after all) -
Poetry and Immortality: John Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale' - Professor Belinda Jack
What is Keats' poem about, and why is it one of the greatest poems ever written? http://www.gresham.ac.uk/lectures-and-events/poetry-immortality-john-keats-ode-to-a-nightingale ‘Thou wast not born for Death! immortal bird/ No hungry generations tread thee down.’ Keats’ ‘Ode to a Nightingale’ contains these curious lines. How can a bird be ‘immortal’? The poem is partly about immortality, but how does its complex poetic web work? The transcript and downloadable versions of the lecture are available from the Gresham College website: http://www.gresham.ac.uk/lectures-and-events/poetry-immortality-john-keats-ode-to-a-nightingale Gresham College has been giving free public lectures since 1597. This tradition continues today with all of our five or so public lectures a week being made availab... -
Benedict Cumberbatch Reciting John Keats's Ode to a Nightingale
One of John Keats's lovely poems: Ode to a Nightingale. Recited by Benedict Cumberbatch, using his most soothing voice... -
Stephen Fry reading John Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale’
Stephen Fry reading John Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale’ for the free online ‘Literature and Mental Health: Reading for Wellbeing’ course. Find out more about this course on https://www.futurelearn.com/courses/literature/ -
Ode to a Nightingale, John Keats (Reading)
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 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 brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And... -
Bright Star OST - 09.Ode to a Nightingale (Original Soundtrack)
Music composed by Mark Bradshaw. I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING. Bright Star (2009). Starring Ben Whishaw and Abbie Cornish. -
-
Benedict☆Cumberbatch ☆ Ode to a nightingale
Benedict☆Cumberbatch read Ode to a nightingale by John Keats. Oda a un ruiseñor: Me duele el corazón y aqueja un soñoliento torpor a mis sentidos, cual si hubiera bebido cicuta o apurado algún fuerte narcótico ahora mismo, y me hundiese en el Leteo: no porque sienta envidia de tu sino feliz, sino por excesiva ventura en tu ventura, tú que, Dríada alada de los árboles, en alguna maraña melodiosa de los verdes hayales y las sombras sin cuento, a plena voz le cantas al estío. ¡Oh! ¡Quién me diera un sorbo de vino, largo tiempo refrescado en la tierra profunda, sabiendo a Flora y a los campos verdes, a danza y canción provenzal y a soleada alegría! ¡Quién un vaso me diera del Sur cálido, colmado de hipocrás rosado y verdadero, con bullir en su borde de enlazadas burbujas y mi boca de púrpura...
John Keats- Ode to a Nightingale
- Order: Reorder
- Duration: 5:36
- Updated: 16 Aug 2011
- views: 705845
HDHDHDHD. YOU WON'T REGRET IT.
30 Min. making this, 2 hours rendering in Full HD, 1 1/2 hours uploading it. I also upped the bass a little to give his voice...
HDHDHDHD. YOU WON'T REGRET IT.
30 Min. making this, 2 hours rendering in Full HD, 1 1/2 hours uploading it. I also upped the bass a little to give his voice a little boom. /like it needed it. So uh Enjoy his face and voice. :)
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?
wn.com/John Keats Ode To A Nightingale
HDHDHDHD. YOU WON'T REGRET IT.
30 Min. making this, 2 hours rendering in Full HD, 1 1/2 hours uploading it. I also upped the bass a little to give his voice a little boom. /like it needed it. So uh Enjoy his face and voice. :)
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?
- published: 16 Aug 2011
- views: 705845
Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats
- Order: Reorder
- Duration: 5:23
- Updated: 31 Jan 2014
- views: 11460
Ode to a Nightingale
By John Keats 1795 --1821
Read by Benedict Cumberbatch
Music: Adagietto from Symphony No. 5 composer G. Mahler
My heart aches, and a drow...
Ode to a Nightingale
By John Keats 1795 --1821
Read by Benedict Cumberbatch
Music: Adagietto from Symphony No. 5 composer G. Mahler
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
Cooled 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-strained 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 specter-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 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 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 covered 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,
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 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 emperors and clown;
Perhaps the selfsame 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 ofttimes hath
Charmed 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 famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hilside; 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?
wn.com/Ode To A Nightingale By John Keats
Ode to a Nightingale
By John Keats 1795 --1821
Read by Benedict Cumberbatch
Music: Adagietto from Symphony No. 5 composer G. Mahler
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
Cooled 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-strained 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 specter-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 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 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 covered 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,
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 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 emperors and clown;
Perhaps the selfsame 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 ofttimes hath
Charmed 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 famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hilside; 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?
- published: 31 Jan 2014
- views: 11460
Ode to a Nightingale - Ben Whishaw Bright Star
- Order: Reorder
- Duration: 5:23
- Updated: 27 Oct 2012
- views: 61321
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...
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-wingèd 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-delvèd 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-stainèd 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 grey 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 embalmèd 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 musèd 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 ofttimes 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 famed 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?
JOHN KEATS (1795-1821)
wn.com/Ode To A Nightingale Ben Whishaw Bright Star
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-wingèd 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-delvèd 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-stainèd 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 grey 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 embalmèd 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 musèd 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 ofttimes 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 famed 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?
JOHN KEATS (1795-1821)
- published: 27 Oct 2012
- views: 61321
Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats: A Reading, Annotation, and Analysis pt 1 of 2
- Order: Reorder
- Duration: 6:34
- Updated: 16 Apr 2013
- views: 12375
A reading and analysis--stanza by stanza of this poem. The annotation notes are visible.
A reading and analysis--stanza by stanza of this poem. The annotation notes are visible.
wn.com/Ode To A Nightingale By John Keats A Reading, Annotation, And Analysis Pt 1 Of 2
A reading and analysis--stanza by stanza of this poem. The annotation notes are visible.
- published: 16 Apr 2013
- views: 12375
Ode to a Nightingale -- Analysis
- Order: Reorder
- Duration: 14:47
- Updated: 11 Oct 2012
- views: 5590
I barely managed to squeeze this in under 15 minutes. Last time I tried to upload this, YouTube wouldn't let me since it was about seven minutes longer than thi...
I barely managed to squeeze this in under 15 minutes. Last time I tried to upload this, YouTube wouldn't let me since it was about seven minutes longer than this. I did another take, though, and managed to eek this out in time.
Feedback is much appreciated. I tried to stay focused in this, but it's very easy for me to get distracted with tangential manners, so I hope I didn't wander too much. I'm hoping increased experience will help me improve over the course of time.
Thank you for watching! If you liked this, I'll have more stuff prepared in the near future, so feel free to stick around and post your thoughts below (I can only hit on so much in fifteen minutes, after all)
wn.com/Ode To A Nightingale Analysis
I barely managed to squeeze this in under 15 minutes. Last time I tried to upload this, YouTube wouldn't let me since it was about seven minutes longer than this. I did another take, though, and managed to eek this out in time.
Feedback is much appreciated. I tried to stay focused in this, but it's very easy for me to get distracted with tangential manners, so I hope I didn't wander too much. I'm hoping increased experience will help me improve over the course of time.
Thank you for watching! If you liked this, I'll have more stuff prepared in the near future, so feel free to stick around and post your thoughts below (I can only hit on so much in fifteen minutes, after all)
- published: 11 Oct 2012
- views: 5590
Poetry and Immortality: John Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale' - Professor Belinda Jack
- Order: Reorder
- Duration: 49:45
- Updated: 04 Jun 2015
- views: 4834
What is Keats' poem about, and why is it one of the greatest poems ever written?
http://www.gresham.ac.uk/lectures-and-events/poetry-immortality-john-keats-ode-...
What is Keats' poem about, and why is it one of the greatest poems ever written?
http://www.gresham.ac.uk/lectures-and-events/poetry-immortality-john-keats-ode-to-a-nightingale
‘Thou wast not born for Death! immortal bird/ No hungry generations tread thee down.’
Keats’ ‘Ode to a Nightingale’ contains these curious lines. How can a bird be ‘immortal’? The poem is partly about immortality, but how does its complex poetic web work?
The transcript and downloadable versions of the lecture are available from the Gresham College website: http://www.gresham.ac.uk/lectures-and-events/poetry-immortality-john-keats-ode-to-a-nightingale
Gresham College has been giving free public lectures since 1597. This tradition continues today with all of our five or so public lectures a week being made available for free download from our website. There are currently over 1,800 lectures free to access or download from the website.
Website: http://www.gresham.ac.uk
Twitter: http://twitter.com/GreshamCollege
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/greshamcollege
wn.com/Poetry And Immortality John Keats' 'Ode To A Nightingale' Professor Belinda Jack
What is Keats' poem about, and why is it one of the greatest poems ever written?
http://www.gresham.ac.uk/lectures-and-events/poetry-immortality-john-keats-ode-to-a-nightingale
‘Thou wast not born for Death! immortal bird/ No hungry generations tread thee down.’
Keats’ ‘Ode to a Nightingale’ contains these curious lines. How can a bird be ‘immortal’? The poem is partly about immortality, but how does its complex poetic web work?
The transcript and downloadable versions of the lecture are available from the Gresham College website: http://www.gresham.ac.uk/lectures-and-events/poetry-immortality-john-keats-ode-to-a-nightingale
Gresham College has been giving free public lectures since 1597. This tradition continues today with all of our five or so public lectures a week being made available for free download from our website. There are currently over 1,800 lectures free to access or download from the website.
Website: http://www.gresham.ac.uk
Twitter: http://twitter.com/GreshamCollege
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/greshamcollege
- published: 04 Jun 2015
- views: 4834
Benedict Cumberbatch Reciting John Keats's Ode to a Nightingale
- Order: Reorder
- Duration: 5:36
- Updated: 20 Dec 2014
- views: 6457
One of John Keats's lovely poems: Ode to a Nightingale.
Recited by Benedict Cumberbatch, using his most soothing voice...
One of John Keats's lovely poems: Ode to a Nightingale.
Recited by Benedict Cumberbatch, using his most soothing voice...
wn.com/Benedict Cumberbatch Reciting John Keats's Ode To A Nightingale
One of John Keats's lovely poems: Ode to a Nightingale.
Recited by Benedict Cumberbatch, using his most soothing voice...
- published: 20 Dec 2014
- views: 6457
Stephen Fry reading John Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale’
- Order: Reorder
- Duration: 5:15
- Updated: 08 Jan 2016
- views: 1565
Stephen Fry reading John Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale’ for the free online ‘Literature and Mental Health: Reading for Wellbeing’ course. Find out more about th...
Stephen Fry reading John Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale’ for the free online ‘Literature and Mental Health: Reading for Wellbeing’ course. Find out more about this course on https://www.futurelearn.com/courses/literature/
wn.com/Stephen Fry Reading John Keats' 'Ode To A Nightingale’
Stephen Fry reading John Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale’ for the free online ‘Literature and Mental Health: Reading for Wellbeing’ course. Find out more about this course on https://www.futurelearn.com/courses/literature/
- published: 08 Jan 2016
- views: 1565
Ode to a Nightingale, John Keats (Reading)
- Order: Reorder
- Duration: 5:34
- Updated: 14 Mar 2012
- views: 12974
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-...
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 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 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 toil 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?
wn.com/Ode To A Nightingale, John Keats (Reading)
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 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 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 toil 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?
- published: 14 Mar 2012
- views: 12974
Bright Star OST - 09.Ode to a Nightingale (Original Soundtrack)
- Order: Reorder
- Duration: 5:25
- Updated: 01 May 2014
- views: 5732
Music composed by Mark Bradshaw.
I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING.
Bright Star (2009). Starring Ben Whishaw and Abbie Cornish.
Music composed by Mark Bradshaw.
I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING.
Bright Star (2009). Starring Ben Whishaw and Abbie Cornish.
wn.com/Bright Star Ost 09.Ode To A Nightingale (Original Soundtrack)
Music composed by Mark Bradshaw.
I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING.
Bright Star (2009). Starring Ben Whishaw and Abbie Cornish.
- published: 01 May 2014
- views: 5732
Ode To A Nightingale-John Keats,read by Robert Donat
- Order: Reorder
- Duration: 5:19
- Updated: 03 Dec 2008
- views: 49822
The dreamiest of Poems,read by a man who sounds as if he were put on this Earth purely to read Keats.Could it be done any better,more in tune with the spirit of...
The dreamiest of Poems,read by a man who sounds as if he were put on this Earth purely to read Keats.Could it be done any better,more in tune with the spirit of the Great One?
wn.com/Ode To A Nightingale John Keats,Read By Robert Donat
Benedict☆Cumberbatch ☆ Ode to a nightingale
- Order: Reorder
- Duration: 5:36
- Updated: 20 Jan 2012
- views: 104933
Benedict☆Cumberbatch read Ode to a nightingale by John Keats.
Oda a un ruiseñor:
Me duele el corazón y aqueja un soñoliento
torpor a mis sentidos, cual si hubi...
Benedict☆Cumberbatch read Ode to a nightingale by John Keats.
Oda a un ruiseñor:
Me duele el corazón y aqueja un soñoliento
torpor a mis sentidos, cual si hubiera bebido
cicuta o apurado algún fuerte narcótico
ahora mismo, y me hundiese en el Leteo:
no porque sienta envidia de tu sino feliz,
sino por excesiva ventura en tu ventura,
tú que, Dríada alada de los árboles,
en alguna maraña melodiosa
de los verdes hayales y las sombras sin cuento,
a plena voz le cantas al estío.
¡Oh! ¡Quién me diera un sorbo de vino, largo tiempo
refrescado en la tierra profunda,
sabiendo a Flora y a los campos verdes,
a danza y canción provenzal y a soleada alegría!
¡Quién un vaso me diera del Sur cálido,
colmado de hipocrás rosado y verdadero,
con bullir en su borde de enlazadas burbujas
y mi boca de púrpura teñida;
beber y, sin ser visto, abandonar el mundo
y perderme contigo en las sombras del bosque!
A lo lejos perderme, disiparme, olvidar
lo que entre ramas no supiste nunca:
la fatiga, la fiebre y el enojo de donde,
uno a otro, los hombres, en su gemir, se escuchan,
y sacude el temblor postreras canas tristes;
donde la juventud, flaca y pálida, muere;
donde, sólo al pensar, nos llenan la tristeza
y esas desesperanzas con párpados de plomo;
donde sus ojos claros no guarda la hermosura
sin que, ya al otro día, los nuble un amor nuevo.
¡Perderme lejos, lejos! Pues volaré contigo,
no en el carro de Baco y con sus leopardos,
sino en las invisibles alas de la Poesía,
aunque la mente obtusa vacile y se detenga.
¡Contigo ya! Tierna es la noche
y tal vez en su trono esté la Luna Reina
y, en torno, aquel enjambre de estrellas, de sus Hadas;
pero aquí no hay más luces
que las que exhala el cielo con sus brisas, por ramas
sombrías y senderos serpenteantes, musgosos.
Entre sombras escucho; y si yo tantas veces
casi me enamoré de la apacible Muerte
y le di dulces nombres en versos pensativos,
para que se llevara por los aires mi aliento
tranquilo; más que nunca morir parece amable,
extinguirse sin pena, a medianoche,
en tanto tú derramas toda el alma
en ese arrobamiento.
Cantarías aún, mas ya no te oiría:
para tu canto fúnebre sería tierra y hierba.
Pero tú no naciste para la muerte, ¡oh, pájaro inmortal!
No habrá gentes hambrientas que te humillen;
la voz que oigo esta noche pasajera, fue oída
por el emperador, antaño, y por el rústico;
tal vez el mismo canto llegó al corazón triste
de Ruth, cuando, sintiendo nostalgia de su tierra,
por las extrañas mieses se detuvo, llorando;
el mismo que hechizara a menudo los mágicos
ventanales, abiertos sobre espumas de mares
azarosos, en tierras de hadas y de olvido.
¡De olvido! Esa palabra, como campana, dobla
y me aleja de ti, hacia mis soledades.
¡Adiós! La fantasía no alucina tan bien
como la fama reza, elfo de engaño.
¡Adiós, adiós! Doliente, ya tu himno se apaga
más allá de esos prados, sobre el callado arroyo,
por encima del monte, y luego se sepulta
entre avenidas del vecino valle.
¿Era visión o sueño?
Se fue ya aquella música. ¿Despierto? ¿Estoy dormido?
wn.com/Benedict☆Cumberbatch ☆ Ode To A Nightingale
Benedict☆Cumberbatch read Ode to a nightingale by John Keats.
Oda a un ruiseñor:
Me duele el corazón y aqueja un soñoliento
torpor a mis sentidos, cual si hubiera bebido
cicuta o apurado algún fuerte narcótico
ahora mismo, y me hundiese en el Leteo:
no porque sienta envidia de tu sino feliz,
sino por excesiva ventura en tu ventura,
tú que, Dríada alada de los árboles,
en alguna maraña melodiosa
de los verdes hayales y las sombras sin cuento,
a plena voz le cantas al estío.
¡Oh! ¡Quién me diera un sorbo de vino, largo tiempo
refrescado en la tierra profunda,
sabiendo a Flora y a los campos verdes,
a danza y canción provenzal y a soleada alegría!
¡Quién un vaso me diera del Sur cálido,
colmado de hipocrás rosado y verdadero,
con bullir en su borde de enlazadas burbujas
y mi boca de púrpura teñida;
beber y, sin ser visto, abandonar el mundo
y perderme contigo en las sombras del bosque!
A lo lejos perderme, disiparme, olvidar
lo que entre ramas no supiste nunca:
la fatiga, la fiebre y el enojo de donde,
uno a otro, los hombres, en su gemir, se escuchan,
y sacude el temblor postreras canas tristes;
donde la juventud, flaca y pálida, muere;
donde, sólo al pensar, nos llenan la tristeza
y esas desesperanzas con párpados de plomo;
donde sus ojos claros no guarda la hermosura
sin que, ya al otro día, los nuble un amor nuevo.
¡Perderme lejos, lejos! Pues volaré contigo,
no en el carro de Baco y con sus leopardos,
sino en las invisibles alas de la Poesía,
aunque la mente obtusa vacile y se detenga.
¡Contigo ya! Tierna es la noche
y tal vez en su trono esté la Luna Reina
y, en torno, aquel enjambre de estrellas, de sus Hadas;
pero aquí no hay más luces
que las que exhala el cielo con sus brisas, por ramas
sombrías y senderos serpenteantes, musgosos.
Entre sombras escucho; y si yo tantas veces
casi me enamoré de la apacible Muerte
y le di dulces nombres en versos pensativos,
para que se llevara por los aires mi aliento
tranquilo; más que nunca morir parece amable,
extinguirse sin pena, a medianoche,
en tanto tú derramas toda el alma
en ese arrobamiento.
Cantarías aún, mas ya no te oiría:
para tu canto fúnebre sería tierra y hierba.
Pero tú no naciste para la muerte, ¡oh, pájaro inmortal!
No habrá gentes hambrientas que te humillen;
la voz que oigo esta noche pasajera, fue oída
por el emperador, antaño, y por el rústico;
tal vez el mismo canto llegó al corazón triste
de Ruth, cuando, sintiendo nostalgia de su tierra,
por las extrañas mieses se detuvo, llorando;
el mismo que hechizara a menudo los mágicos
ventanales, abiertos sobre espumas de mares
azarosos, en tierras de hadas y de olvido.
¡De olvido! Esa palabra, como campana, dobla
y me aleja de ti, hacia mis soledades.
¡Adiós! La fantasía no alucina tan bien
como la fama reza, elfo de engaño.
¡Adiós, adiós! Doliente, ya tu himno se apaga
más allá de esos prados, sobre el callado arroyo,
por encima del monte, y luego se sepulta
entre avenidas del vecino valle.
¿Era visión o sueño?
Se fue ya aquella música. ¿Despierto? ¿Estoy dormido?
- published: 20 Jan 2012
- views: 104933
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5:36
John Keats- Ode to a Nightingale
HDHDHDHD. YOU WON'T REGRET IT.
30 Min. making this, 2 hours rendering in Full HD, 1 1/...
published: 16 Aug 2011
John Keats- Ode to a Nightingale
John Keats- Ode to a Nightingale
- Report rights infringement
- published: 16 Aug 2011
- views: 705845
5:23
Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats
Ode to a Nightingale
By John Keats 1795 --1821
Read by Benedict Cumberbatch
Music: Adagie...
published: 31 Jan 2014
Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats
Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats
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- published: 31 Jan 2014
- views: 11460
5:23
Ode to a Nightingale - Ben Whishaw Bright Star
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk...
published: 27 Oct 2012
Ode to a Nightingale - Ben Whishaw Bright Star
Ode to a Nightingale - Ben Whishaw Bright Star
- Report rights infringement
- published: 27 Oct 2012
- views: 61321
6:34
Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats: A Reading, Annotation, and Analysis pt 1 of 2
A reading and analysis--stanza by stanza of this poem. The annotation notes are visible.
published: 16 Apr 2013
Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats: A Reading, Annotation, and Analysis pt 1 of 2
Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats: A Reading, Annotation, and Analysis pt 1 of 2
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- published: 16 Apr 2013
- views: 12375
14:47
Ode to a Nightingale -- Analysis
I barely managed to squeeze this in under 15 minutes. Last time I tried to upload this, Yo...
published: 11 Oct 2012
Ode to a Nightingale -- Analysis
Ode to a Nightingale -- Analysis
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- published: 11 Oct 2012
- views: 5590
49:45
Poetry and Immortality: John Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale' - Professor Belinda Jack
What is Keats' poem about, and why is it one of the greatest poems ever written?
http://ww...
published: 04 Jun 2015
Poetry and Immortality: John Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale' - Professor Belinda Jack
Poetry and Immortality: John Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale' - Professor Belinda Jack
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- published: 04 Jun 2015
- views: 4834
5:36
Benedict Cumberbatch Reciting John Keats's Ode to a Nightingale
One of John Keats's lovely poems: Ode to a Nightingale.
Recited by Benedict Cumberbatch, u...
published: 20 Dec 2014
Benedict Cumberbatch Reciting John Keats's Ode to a Nightingale
Benedict Cumberbatch Reciting John Keats's Ode to a Nightingale
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- published: 20 Dec 2014
- views: 6457
5:15
Stephen Fry reading John Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale’
Stephen Fry reading John Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale’ for the free online ‘Literature and...
published: 08 Jan 2016
Stephen Fry reading John Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale’
Stephen Fry reading John Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale’
- Report rights infringement
- published: 08 Jan 2016
- views: 1565
5:34
Ode to a Nightingale, John Keats (Reading)
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
...
published: 14 Mar 2012
Ode to a Nightingale, John Keats (Reading)
Ode to a Nightingale, John Keats (Reading)
- Report rights infringement
- published: 14 Mar 2012
- views: 12974
5:25
Bright Star OST - 09.Ode to a Nightingale (Original Soundtrack)
Music composed by Mark Bradshaw.
I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING.
Bright Star (2009). Starring Ben...
published: 01 May 2014
Bright Star OST - 09.Ode to a Nightingale (Original Soundtrack)
Bright Star OST - 09.Ode to a Nightingale (Original Soundtrack)
- Report rights infringement
- published: 01 May 2014
- views: 5732
5:19
Ode To A Nightingale-John Keats,read by Robert Donat
The dreamiest of Poems,read by a man who sounds as if he were put on this Earth purely to ...
published: 03 Dec 2008
Ode To A Nightingale-John Keats,read by Robert Donat
Ode To A Nightingale-John Keats,read by Robert Donat
- Report rights infringement
- published: 03 Dec 2008
- views: 49822
5:36
Benedict☆Cumberbatch ☆ Ode to a nightingale
Benedict☆Cumberbatch read Ode to a nightingale by John Keats.
Oda a un ruiseñor:
Me duele...
published: 20 Jan 2012
Benedict☆Cumberbatch ☆ Ode to a nightingale
Benedict☆Cumberbatch ☆ Ode to a nightingale
- Report rights infringement
- published: 20 Jan 2012
- views: 104933
John Keats- Ode to a Nightingale...
Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats...
Ode to a Nightingale - Ben Whishaw Bright Star...
Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats: A Reading, Ann...
Ode to a Nightingale -- Analysis...
Poetry and Immortality: John Keats' 'Ode to a Nigh...
Benedict Cumberbatch Reciting John Keats's Ode to ...
Stephen Fry reading John Keats' 'Ode to a Nighting...
Ode to a Nightingale, John Keats (Reading)...
Bright Star OST - 09.Ode to a Nightingale (Origina...
Ode To A Nightingale-John Keats,read by Robert Don...
Benedict☆Cumberbatch ☆ Ode to a nightingale...
-
Lyrics list:lyrics
-
Ode To A Nightingale
Ode To A Nightingale
A lonely whisper from the forest peak
Soft she speaks
When the bough does break
She will fall once and for all
Nightingale
Valiantly sing into the night
Synthesize the dark with the light
Safe behind her shield of tune
Chase the path of the moon
Burn the buildings down
Maiden fair
Set free the air
Nightingale
Valiantly sing into the night
Synthesize the dark with the light
Oh the meadows and streams
They’re buried so deep now
Nightingale take to the air
You’re all that’s left who cares
Nightingale
Valiantly sing into the night
photo: AP / Felipe Dana
Brazil Scientists Seek to Unravel Mystery of Zika Twins
Edit Voa News 07 May 2016
Scientists struggling to unravel the mysteries of a Zika epidemic in Brazil hope they can learn from cases of women giving birth to twins in which only one child is afflicted by the microcephaly birth defect associated with the virus ... "I thank God for giving her to me... "The doctors want to study them so they can see what protected Lucas in case it can help other children."...
photo: AP / Mary Schwalm, File
RNC Chairman Says Trump "Trying" To Rein In Craziness Surrounding His Campaign
Edit WorldNews.com 06 May 2016
Republican National Committee Chairman Reince Priebus is asking citizens to see past all the showmanship and craziness surrounding Republican frontrunner Donald Trump’s campaign and realize the New York entrepreneur is “trying,” CBS News reported Friday ... He suggested Trump's graciousness Tuesday evening after he won Indiana, is the Trump he's come to know....
photo: Creative Commons / marcusrg
Soldier who tortured Brazil president in 1970s dies
Edit Dawn 08 May 2016
SAO PAULO ... Rousseff, a one-time Marxist guerrilla, was tortured by the military dictatorship that ruled Brazil from 1964 to 1985 ... The country’s first female president is now facing a likely impeachment trial over accusations of illegal accounting maneuvers to mask the depth of Brazil’s economic troubles during her tight 2014 reelection victory ... ....
photo: AP / Jeff Chiu
Clinton calls on media to step up scrutiny of Trump
Edit CNN 07 May 2016
Clinton tweaked the media's coverage of Trump at her fundraiser in San Francisco on Friday night, according to multiple attendees ... Clinton has been a more subtle media critic for much of the 2016 campaign, suggesting that she is subject to more scrutiny than anyone else and saying that her political press corps is only interested in headlines. Yet Clinton has also subjected the media to treatment unlike most presidential campaigns....
photo: AP / Don Ryan
Swarm of earthquakes strikes Mount St. Helens
Edit CNN 07 May 2016
They've been measured about 1.2 to four miles underneath the surface. With such small magnitudes and such depths, you wouldn't be able to feel the earthquakes on the surface ... They've become increasingly common since March 14, "reaching nearly 40 located earthquakes per week," according to the USGS ... Scientists have seen similar patterns of small earthquake swarms in 2013, 2014 and in the 1990s, according to the USGS....
« back to news headlines
Ode to a Nightingale - John Keats
Edit The Examiner 25 Jun 2014
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains ... 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, ... Where but to think is to be full of sorrow ... Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away! away! for I will fly to thee, ... 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, ... To thy high requiem become a sod ... To toll me back from thee to my sole self! ... As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf....
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