A sorrowful John Keats,
Panting yet praising; an Urn, -a Grecian old urn,
Beholding an art with life,
Of maidens and of passionate lovers,
Of the thing they loath and love equal.
Lamenting like little lunatic lad,
at the life less sight,
of a garlanded cow and of a priest,
The citadel on the mountain
at peace in the morn,
yet silent and desolate,
yet silent and desolate,
The cold pastoral, - a waste of generation.
A thing of beauty, a joy forever.
Truth, Beauty, Beauty Truth.
What is this called Poetry?
Indeed! John Keats in the 18th century celebrates nature and imagination. The civilizations were fully against the technological advancements and believes that imagination and thoughts of human yielded better outcome.
ReplyDelete