Gender: male
Date of birth: 1795 ~ 1821
Place of birth: London
Nationality: Britain
Keats (1795 ~ 1821) was an English poet. He was born in London, and his father was the foreman of the stables. Keats loved literature since childhood, and left school to study medicine when he was under 16 because of his poor family. Keats' parents died in succession during his adolescence. Although two brothers and one sister took care of him very much, the sadness of losing his parents prematurely always affected Keats. In Enfield School, Keats received a traditional and formal education. In reading and writing, Keats was encouraged by his teacher Charles Cowden Clarke. Young Keats loved Virgil very much. At the age of 14, he translated Virgil's long poem Aeneid into English. Keats was apprenticed to a pharmacist in 181. Keats was admitted to a medical school in London five years later, but within a year, Keats gave up his wish to be a doctor and concentrated on writing poetry. Keats tried to write poetry very early, and most of his early works were imitations. In 1816, he met famous poets such as Lee Hunt and Shelley and was influenced by them. In November, he abandoned medicine to become a writer and embarked on the road of poetry creation. Finally, he became a dazzling superstar in the British literary world at that time.
in p>1817, Keats' first book of poetry was published. This collection of poems received some good comments, but some extremely harsh and offensive comments were published in an influential magazine at that time (Blackwood`s magazine). Undeterred, Keats went to press next spring with a new collection of poems, "Endymion". In the summer of 1818, Keats traveled to northern England and Scotland. On the way, he got news that his brother Tom had severe tuberculosis. Keats immediately rushed home to take care of Tom. At the end of this year, Tom died, and Keats moved to a friend's house in Hampstead, Hampus, which is now regarded as Keats' home. There, Keats met and fell in love with a young female neighbor, Fanny Brawne. In the next few years, illness and economic problems have been bothering Keats, but he surprisingly wrote a large number of excellent works, including Nights of Saint Agnes, Ode to a Nightingale and To Autumn. Keats coughed up blood for the first time in March 182. Shortly after that, Keats died on February 23, 1821 on the way to Italy for recuperation because of rapidly deteriorating tuberculosis.
The first poem Keats wrote was Imitation of Spencer, and then he wrote many excellent sonnets. His early poems were collected in the first Book of Poetry published in March, 1817. The following year, he wrote "Antimian" based on a beautiful myth of ancient Greece. The poem is full of imagination, colorful, full of desire for freedom, and shows the progressive tendency of anti-classicism.
The period from p>1818 to 182 was the heyday of Keats' poetry creation, and he successively completed such famous long poems as Isabella, The Night Before Saint-Yanni, and Xu Perien. The most popular famous works such as Ode to a Nightingale, Ode to an Ancient Greek Urn and Ode to Autumn were also written during this period.
Keats is brilliant in poetry, as well as Shelley and Byron. He is only 25 years old, but his poems have been well-known all over the world, which are considered to perfectly embody the characteristics of western romantic poetry and are regarded as outstanding representatives of European romantic movement.
A poem
Ode to a nightingale
John Keats
Ode to a Nightingale
Keats
My Heart Aches and A Drowsy Numbness Pains
My Sense as Through of Hemlock I Had Drunk
Or EM is attached. P Tied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute paste and lethe-wardshadsunk
My heart aches, drowsiness and numbness
poisoned my senses, just like drinking poison tuna,
and I just swallowed opium,
for a minute, Words sink in oblivion
' tis not through envy of thy happy lot
but being too happy in thin happiness-
that through light-winged dry of the trees
in some mel. Odious plot
of beechen green and shadows numberless
singer of summer in full-throated ease.
Not jealous of your luck,
I am very happy for your luck,
You, a lightly winged elf in the forest,
In the complex under the beech green shadow,
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 mout H
that I might drink and leave the world unsafe
and with the fade away into the forest dim
Hey, a sip of wine! That sweet alcohol
stored underground for many years,
tastes like flowers, green earth,
dancing, love songs and burning joy!
Ah, a cup full of southern warmth,
full of bright red fountains of inspiration,
pearl foam flashing along the rim of the cup,
and purple fading from the lips;
I want to drink it so that I can't see the world.
Follow you into the dark depths of the forest
Fade far away solvent and quiet forge
What would you like the leaves have never known
The weariness the fear 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.
Go far away, disappear, and completely forget
What you never knew in the forest,
Fatigue, fever and impatience
Here, people sit down and listen to each other's moans;
I was paralyzed and shook for a while, and I was sad. At last, I had a few strands of white hair.
My youth was pale, and I lost weight strangely, and then I died.
lead eyes are desperate;
A beauty can't keep her eyes open,
A new relationship can't last forever.
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 there is no light
save what from heaven is with the breezes blow
through verdur ous glooms and winding mossy ways.
Go! Go! I want to fly to you,
without running over Dionysus' car and his entourage,
on the invisible wings of poetry,
although this chaotic mind has already followed you,
the night is gentle, and
she is on her throne in the next month,
surrounded by all her star fairies,
but there is no light here and there,
some.
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 s easonable 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 elder child
the coming musk-rose full of dewy wine
the murmurous haul of flies on summer eves.
I can't see clearly which flowers are at my feet,
what kind of soft incense is hanging on the high branches.
But in the warm darkness, guess that each kind of sweetness
gives
green grass, bushes, wild fruit trees
white hawthorn and garden roses with its seasonal gifts;
violets that are easy to thank in the leaves;
There is also the first show in May and mid-May.
This musk rose is full of dew, and
flies buzz in it on summer nights.
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 thinking and I have ears in vain-
to thy high need to be a SOD.
I listened to the night, and how many times
I almost fell in love with the quiet death,
I called her gentle name in so many meditative rhymes,
I wove into songs, and I breathed silently;
Now she dies more beautifully,
soaring in the middle of the night without sadness,
when you are pouring your soul out
such a ecstasy!
You are still singing, but I can't hear you.
Your expensive requiem is facing a rub of dirt.
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 s ad heart of Ruth when sick for home
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that of