Can you all help me please?

Discussion on the works of John Keats.

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Can you all help me please?

Postby P-e-T-i-t-E FiLLe » Thu Jan 16, 2003 2:42 am

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Hi everybody !
I'm a very ... very beginner who start reading poem
And i got a homework to analyse " The Human Seasons"
by John Keats. Can you give me some (or may be a lotS :lol: )
opinions to critic this poem? Thanks anyway !! :D
P-e-T-i-t-E FiLLe
 

Re: Human seasons

Postby Despondence » Tue Jan 21, 2003 12:00 pm

Hi,

Being no expert and having seen no other critique of this poem, I can only offer my own uneducated opinion. For me, the sonnet comes out as a philosophical piece, an allegory over the moods and tempers of Man, likening them to the Earthly seasons. Style-wise, the sonnet seems largely unremarkable; it neither excels in the keynotes of a sonnet, but nor does it stray far from the general feel of one. The allegory required more than one read for me to feel comfortable with. Eventually, as I see it now, it not so much puts me in contact with the mindset of the poet at the writing, as identify those seasons within myself which he alludes to. Looking into myself, I can easily se mine own spring of "fancy clear", my luxurious summer, my "Autumn ports and Havens of repose", and my "Winter too of pale misfeature". I believe everyone should be able to find these within themselves, and when they do, the poem acquires an extra dimension of meaning and beauty. Hence also why it feels like a work of philosophy as much as of poetry to me.

Well, just my two cents. For the rest, if the sonnet be a beautiful but not outstanding piece, the letter to Bailey certainly qualifies as a masterpiece in its own right. It is a beauty, and to just pick a few examples it contains such memorable phrases as:

You know my ideas about Religion. I do not think myself more in the right than other people, and that nothing in this world is proveable.

- I shall never be a Reasoner because I care not to be in the right, when retired from bickering and in a proper philosophical temper.

How profound, and by one who merely named himself poet.
Despondence
 


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