Ode

Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats

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?

Explanation:
Keats' Ode to a Nightingale begins with the speaker becoming drunk. However, he does not drink because he feels “envy of thy happy lot, /But being too happy in thine happiness,” his reasons go beyond envy and instead allow for the speaker to express how he simply wishes to be with the nightingale and as free as it is. The nightingale sings “with full throated ease,” with a freedom that few are able to express throughout their lives. The speaker also wishes to escape the world, perhaps in death, as he expresses: “That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, /And with thee fade away into the forest dim”. Such wishes are his because of what the nightingale has never known, because of the human traits it can never possess and because of the hurt that the speaker himself has felt. Such pain includes the daily “weariness, the fever, and the fret”. The speaker goes on to say that he and the nightingale are so different because of the mortality of humans and the immortality of the bird. While human “youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies,” the nightingale “wast not born for death, immortal Bird!”. However, he realizes being in a drunken state in order to connect with the nightingale is not the answer, he will “Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,” (Bacchus, the Roman god of wine). He also can not see what he imagines to be there, the elements of nature that seem so obvious to him. The speaker comes to the realization and admits to himself that he has been “half in love with easeful Death,” and that “Now more than ever seems it rich to die”. The nightingale's song alone would be comfort enough for the speaker to slip easily into death without pain or worry. While his trance with the nightingale continues and he speaks of death, another realization comes forth when he utters the word “forlorn”. As he states, “Forlorn! the very word is like a bell /To toll me back from thee to my sole self!” The word alone shakes him from the trance an allows for him to think rationally. He realizes that the bird cannot help him escape the troubled and hurtful life that he lives, but instead must fly off leaving no record of his ever having been there. The speaker then questions: “Do I wake or sleep?”. The speaker's attitude towards the nightingale is one of great appreciation. He feels that the nightingale is the only thing, other than perhaps alcohol which he only drinks to feel more connected to the bird, that will ever help him to escape the hardships of his life, will be the only thing to ever give him the happiness and pain free existence that he strives for. Such a deep praise of the nightingale encompasses the basis of an ode.