There is in them that trembling sense of beauty
which opens to us wide windows into fairyland. They are simple
stories veiled in the glamour of lovely words, and full of the
rich color and the magic of the middle ages. But here as
elsewhere in Keats's poetry what we lack is the touch of human
sorrow. Keats wrote of nature with all Wordsworth's insight and
truth, and with greater magic of words. He understood the
mystery of nature, but of the mystery of the heart of man it was
not his to sing. He lived in a world apart. The terror and
beauty of real life hardly touched him. Alone of all the poets
of his day he was unmoved by the French Revolution, and all that
it stood for.
Some day you will read Keats's metrical romances, and now I will
give you a few verses from some of his odes, for in his odes we
have Keats's poetry at its very best. Here are some verses from
his ode On a Grecian Urn. You have seen such a vase, perhaps,
with beautiful sculptured figures on it, dancing maidens and
piping shepherds.
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