Good LORD! Matthew Coulton understands poetry! I listened to both Benedict Cumberbatch and Stephen Frye (both great actors, btw) recite the same poem before I listened to this version, and they sounded like they were … well, reciting poetry. Like a 10th grade student reading Keats in front of the classroom. But Coulton here NAILS it! He understands the emotion … the sorrow and ecstasy of this magnificent work. Great job, Matthew Coulton! “When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe than ours!”
It seems Keats himself is reciting this poem ! So beautiful ! So soothing ! So heart touching ! It was in our syllabus in the third semester of our English Hons. After three years I am hearing this beautiful recitation. This creates sensation in me . 😇😇😇😇
This is my favorite poem in the English language. I've only spent two and a half days in London--but spent one of them at the Keats House in Hampstead. It is one of the best days that I've spent in my life.
Well that was a masterclass in poetry recital, of one of the greatest poems of the English language. The nightingale, the image, the year 1819, all have a meaning beyond this earth.
I am going to a concert in St Matthews Church, Northampton tonight, which includes a musical interpretation of the Ode, by the composer HH-H. I am not familiar with it, but having listened through three times, l feel at least s little prepared now. I hardly feel that a musical interpreter can improve on this version here.
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?
POETRY FOUNDATION POEMS & POETS HARRIET ARTICLES VIDEO PODCASTS LEARN EVENTS POETRY MAGAZINE ABOUT US Newsletter Search Search by Poem or Poet 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?
I could imagine that this is how John K himself would have spoken this Ode , a beautiful rendition , a subtle brilliance.
Thank you, Philip.
Thank you.
Good LORD! Matthew Coulton understands poetry! I listened to both Benedict Cumberbatch and Stephen Frye (both great actors, btw) recite the same poem before I listened to this version, and they sounded like they were … well, reciting poetry. Like a 10th grade student reading Keats in front of the classroom. But Coulton here NAILS it! He understands the emotion … the sorrow and ecstasy of this magnificent work. Great job, Matthew Coulton! “When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe than ours!”
Thank you for your kind comments, which I will happily share with Matthew and the Keats House team.
This is the best recitation of this poem I've watched thus far!
Thank you, Taylor W. So glad you appreciated it!
@@keatsfoundation8049 Of course! Thank you so much for bringing it to life.
It seems Keats himself is reciting this poem ! So beautiful ! So soothing ! So heart touching ! It was in our syllabus in the third semester of our English Hons. After three years I am hearing this beautiful recitation. This creates sensation in me . 😇😇😇😇
Not mechanic but a beautiful and emotionally brimming recitation.Lovely!👍
Keats is pouring out his heart to his readers. Its no longer a pain of an individual, but it becomes a general .
This is my favorite poem in the English language. I've only spent two and a half days in London--but spent one of them at the Keats House in Hampstead. It is one of the best days that I've spent in my life.
Well that was a masterclass in poetry recital, of one of the greatest poems of the English language.
The nightingale, the image, the year 1819, all have a meaning beyond this earth.
My soul feels wobbly after your recitation. Too much beauty in too short a time. Thank you.
Appreciation from India. Thank you for your simple but powerful recitation.
Incredible performance - simply intoxicating - thankyou.
Thankyou my favourite poem brought to life as if spoke by Keats himself amazing.
This is one of the best recitation I've ever heard. Almost made me cry.
I'm so glad you appreciated it.
I've just found YOU KEATS FOUNDATION channel and am still trembling with a fathomless emotion, thank YOU thank YOU thank YOU 8th VI 2020
You made yourself John Keats. Thanks! It's beautiful. I love John Keats as if I know him.
Such a gem.. superb Coulton
Immortal poet.❤
Best version I've heard !
Excellent voice and diction on this poem! Ode on a Grecian Urn and Ode to a Nightingale are one of my favorite poems to read.
Bravo!!!!!!!!! It was an amazing performance. Thank you so much.
Wonderful! I know this poem so well yet I feel as if I've just heard it for the first time.
Perfect recitation. The best I heard. And I heard many
Thank you!
Getting goosebumps
It's really like Jonh Keats tells about the nightingale ode to his friend, Charls Armitage Brown which he just has written under a plum tree.
Excellent! I am moved.
Thank you so much for honoring the poetry and life of John Keats. I'm glad to have discovered your channel.
So glad you have enoyed the readings.
Fantastic, each words are felt in the deepest core of the heart.
Thank you. I'm delighted that you enjoyed it.
Is there anything like it, listening to these thoughts so skillfully, so empathetically? Thank you.
Excellent recitation.Thank you so much.
I felt every charm of this verse in my blood vessels
You have absolutely nailed this, thank you.
Thank you, David McCarter.
I'm so glad a keats foundation exists honestly I am just starting but yay
Thank you Matthew. This was just marvelous! DA
A thing of beauty is a Joy forever! :)
A wonderful anachronism of Keats Sir.
I am going to a concert in St Matthews Church, Northampton tonight, which includes a musical interpretation of the Ode, by the composer HH-H.
I am not familiar with it, but having listened through three times, l feel at least s little prepared now.
I hardly feel that a musical interpreter can improve on this version here.
I hope you enjoyed the performance.
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?
The only person who disliked this video is Ben Cumberbatch who is jealous of this wonderful reading.
Beautiful..
considered complaining but on second viewing a charming and affecting performance. subscribed.
Beautiful.
You are Amazing Matthew Coulton...! its the best recitation... better than even Ben Whishaw's version.!
Using it for my classroom viewing 👍
Masterful!
Lovely 😍😍😍😍
Perfect
Great 👏👏👏
This is a really good rendition. Close to the best...
I can't think of a better and more touching reading of this ode, and I've heard quite a few.
I'm so glad that you appreciated it. Thank you for your comment.
If you are interested in an analysis of this poem, please click here: czcams.com/video/PoVy5zvRJHc/video.html
I see this poem for jssc cgl from india
Malcolm Guite sent me
Is it true?
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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?
Keats', not Keats's.
ivii
Well try excellent
ромолос
When.had.read.poem.l.was.student.apprectiation 6:11 .Nightingel.poeme. 6:11 6:11johan.keats. 6:11
man why tf i have to study this nonsense in my graduation why couldnt they just put story
Best version I have heard!