It’s actually quite natural

Do it all the time, to be honest

Maybe something superficial

Relates schizophrenic contest

Although, JAH seems to Be: present

Apparently talk to myself

Conversation is energy spent

Perhaps I really do need help

 

Happens, only when I’m alone

Mind perplexed and insecure

Perched on an imaginary throne

Strangely vigilant and cocksure

 

Anarchy dictates fervent minds

Renders senses totally blind

 

“SOLITUDE,” is a beautiful poem; Keats communicates silent reflection, leaving his reader in no doubt, he is alone.  Nature takes precedence, with the poet content as a supporting act, in this; scene of candid waywardness.  The intellect is representative of the poet’s image of self, a joy to be aware of: personality, freedom of choice and the individuality such freedoms bequeath.  Yet, with the almost imaginary comforts of Nature’s remonstrance, comes the highest form of Being, an unfettered mind which allows the poet to controversially declare, he is not alone.  It is a truly wonderful sonnet which bestows unrequited pleasures, to the most diligent of enquiring minds.  This poignant study of nature, does much to allude the genius of John Keats.  Personalizing nature does very little to deny Keats’ closet belief in ‘Supernature,’ and an external force surplus to himself.  His ingenuity brings about this revelatory advent, in the very last line of the poem, leaving no thought, or ‘room’, for further inquiry; this statement of personal fact, the poet intimates, is not, in any circumstance, to be queried or, indeed, questioned.

 

“O SOLITUDE!”

O SOLITUDE! If I must with thee dwell

Let it not be among the jumbled heap

Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep, –

Nature’s observatory – whence the dell,

In flowery slopes, its river’s crystal swell,

May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep

‘Mongst boughs pavilioned, where the deer’s swift leap

Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell.

But though I’ll gladly trace these scenes with thee,

Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind

whose words are images of thoughts refined,

Is my soul’s pleasure; and it must be

Almost the highest bliss of humankind,

When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.

 

 

 

 

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