Analysis of Epistle To My Brother George

John Keats 1795 (Moorgate) – 1821 (Rome)



Full many a dreary hour have I past,
My brain bewildered, and my mind o'ercast
With heaviness; in seasons when I've thought
No spherey strains by me could e'er be caught
From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze
On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays;
Or, on the wavy grass outstretched supinely,
Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely:
That I should never hear Apollo's song,
Though feathery clouds were floating all along
The purple west, and, two bright streaks between,
The golden lyre itself were dimly seen:
That the still murmur of the honey bee
Would never teach a rural song to me:
That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slanting
Would never make a lay of mine enchanting,
Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold
Some tale of love and arms in time of old.

But there are times, when those that love the bay,
Fly from all sorrowing far, far away;
A sudden glow comes on them, nought they see
In water, earth, or air, but poesy.
It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it,
(For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it,)
That when a Poet is in such a trance,
In air her sees white coursers paw, and prance,
Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel,
Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel,
And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call,
Is the swift opening of their wide portal,
When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear,
Whose tones reach nought on earth but Poet's ear.
When these enchanted portals open wide,
And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide,
The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls,
And view the glory of their festivals:
Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem
Fit for the silv'ring of a seraph's dream;
Their rich brimmed goblets, that incessant run
Like the bright spots that move about the sun;
And, when upheld, the wine from each bright jar
Pours with the lustre of a falling star.
Yet further off, are dimly seen their bowers,
Of which, no mortal eye can reach the flowers;
And 'tis right just, for well Apollo knows
'Twould make the Poet quarrel with the rose.
All that's revealed from that far seat of blisses
Is the clear fountains' interchanging kisses,
As gracefully descending, light and thin,
Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin,
When he upswimmeth from the coral caves,
And sports with half his tail above the waves.

These wonders strange he sees, and many more,
Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore.
Should he upon an evening ramble fare
With forehead to the soothing breezes bare,
Would he nought see but the dark, silent blue
With all its diamonds trembling through and through?
Or the coy moon, when in the waviness
Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress,
And staidly paces higher up, and higher,
Like a sweet nun in holy-day attire?
Ah, yes! much more would start into his sight—
The revelries and mysteries of night:
And should I ever see them, I will tell you
Such tales as needs must with amazement spell you.

These are the living pleasures of the bard:
But richer far posterity's reward.
What does he murmur with his latest breath,
While his proud eye looks though the film of death?
"What though I leave this dull and earthly mould,
Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold
With after times.—The patriot shall feel
My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel;
Or, in the senate thunder out my numbers
To startle princes from their easy slumbers.
The sage will mingle with each moral theme
My happy thoughts sententious; he will teem
With lofty periods when my verses fire him,
And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire him.
Lays have I left of such a dear delight
That maids will sing them on their bridal night.
Gay villagers, upon a morn of May,
When they have tired their gentle limbs with play
And formed a snowy circle on the grass,
And placed in midst of all that lovely lass
Who chosen is their queen,—with her fine head
Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red:
For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing,
Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying:
Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble,
A bunch of violets full blown, and double,
Serenely sleep:—she from a casket takes
A little book,—and then a joy awakes
About each youthful heart,—with stifled cries,
And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes:
For she's to read a tale of hopes, and fears;
One that I fostered in my youthful years:
The pearls, that on each glist'ning circlet sleep,
Must ever and anon with silent creep,
Lured by the innocent dim


Scheme AAXXBBCCDDEEFFGGHH IIFBJJKKCCCCXXLLXXMMNNOOPPQQBXRRSS TTUUCVBXWWXXVV XXYYHHCCPBMMZZXXIC1 1 2 2 GGCCXB3 3 4 4 5 5 Z
Poetic Form
Metre 11001010111 110100111 11010111 1111111011 101111111 101111101 110101011 11011111010 1111010101 11001010101 0101011101 0101010101 1011010101 1101010111 101111110 11010111010 111111101 1111010111 1111111101 11111101 0101111111 01011111 11111101111 110101111 1101010101 010111101 111101010 11110101010 01111101 10110011110 1011011101 1111111101 1101010101 0101010101 0101111101 0101011100 1101100101 11011011 111110101 1011110101 0101011111 1101010101 11011101110 11110111010 0111110101 1101010101 1101111111 10110110 1100010101 110101011 11110101 0111110101 1101110101 1111010101 1101110101 1101010101 1111101101 11110100101 10111001 1101110101 0110101010 10110101010 1111110111 01010011 01110111111 11111101011 1101010101 1101101 1111011101 1111110111 1111110101 1111010101 1101010011 1110111 10010101110 1101011101 0111011101 11011111 1101001110101 01111101011 1111110101 1111111101 1100010111 11110110111 0101010101 0101111101 1101111011 111010101 11010001110 11011101010 01011101110 01110011010 01001110101 010101011 0111011101 0101110101 1111011101 1111001101 01111111 110011101 1101001
Closest metre Iambic pentameter
Characters 4,353
Words 798
Sentences 18
Stanzas 4
Stanza Lengths 18, 34, 14, 35
Lines Amount 101
Letters per line (avg) 35
Words per line (avg) 8
Letters per stanza (avg) 874
Words per stanza (avg) 198
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Submitted on May 13, 2011

Modified on March 10, 2023

4:04 min read
154

John Keats

John Keats was an English Romantic poet. more…

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