The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats/Ode on Indolence

by John Keats

ODE ON INDOLENCE

'They toil not, neither do they spin.'

Published in Life, Letters and Literary Remains. In a letter to George and Georgiana Keats, dated March 19, 1819, Keats uses language which shows this poem to have been just then in his mind: 'This morning I am in a sort of temper, indolent and supremely careless —I long after a stanza or two of Thomson's Castle of Indolence—my passions are all asleep, from my having slumbered till nearly eleven, and weakened the animal fibre all over me, to a delightful sensation, about three degrees on this side of faintness. If I had teeth of pearl and the breath of lilies I should call it languor, but as I am I must call it laziness. In this state of effeminacy the fibres of the brain are relaxed in common with the rest of the body, and to such a happy degree that pleasure has no show of enticement and pain no unbearable power. Neither Poetry, nor Ambition, nor Love have any alertness of countenance as they pass by me; they seem rather like figures on a Greek vase—a man and two women whom no one but myself could distinguish in their disguisement. This is the only happiness, and is a rare instance of the advantage of the body overpowering the Mind.'

I

One morn before me were three figures seen,
⁠With bowed necks, and joined hands, side-faced;
And one behind the other stepp'd serene,
⁠In placid sandals, and in white robes graced;
They pass'd, like figures on a marble urn,
⁠When shifted round to see the other side;
⁠They came again; as when the urn once more
Is shifted round, the first seen shades return;
⁠And they were strange to me, as may betide
⁠With vases, to one deep in Phidian lore.

II

How is it, Shadows! that I knew ye not?
⁠How came ye muffled in so hush a mask?
Was it a silent deep-disguised plot
⁠To steal away, and leave without a task
My idle days? Ripe was the drowsy hour;
⁠The blissful cloud of summer-indolence
⁠Benumb'd my eyes; my pulse grew less and less;
Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath no flower:
⁠O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense
⁠Unhaunted quite of all but—nothingness?

III

A third time pass'd they by, and, passing, turn'd
⁠Each one the face a moment whiles to me;
Then faded, and to follow them I burn'd
⁠And ached for wings, because I knew the three;
The first was a fair Maid, and Love her name;
⁠The second was Ambition, pale of cheek,
⁠And ever watchful with fatigued eye;
The last, whom I love more, the more of blame
⁠Is heap'd upon her, maiden most unmeek,—
⁠I knew to be my demon Poesy.

IV

They faded, and, forsooth! I wanted wings:
⁠O folly! What is Love? and where is it?
And for that poor Ambition! it springs
⁠From a man's little heart's short fever-fit;
For Poesy!—no,—she has not a joy,—
⁠At least for me,—so sweet as drowsy noons,
⁠And evenings steep'd in honied indolence;
O, for an age so shelter'd from annoy,
⁠That I may never know how change the moons,
⁠Or hear the voice of busy common-sense!

V

And once more came they by;—alas! wherefore?
⁠My sleep had been embroider'd with dim dreams;
My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o'er
⁠With flowers, and stirring shades, and baffled beams:
The morn was clouded, but no shower fell,
⁠Tho' in her lids hung the sweet tears of May;
⁠The open casement press'd a new-leaved vine,
⁠Let in the budding warmth and throstle's lay;
O Shadows! 't was a time to bid farewell!
⁠Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine.

VI

So, ye three Ghosts, adieu! Ye cannot raise
⁠My head cool-bedded in the flowery grass;
For I would not be dieted with praise,
⁠A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce!
Fade softly from my eyes and be once more
⁠In masque-like figures on the dreamy urn;
⁠Farewell! I yet have visions for the night,
And for the day faint visions there is store;
⁠Vanish, ye Phantoms! from my idle spright,
⁠Into the clouds, and nevermore return!