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?
"We are half in love with easeful Death; now more than ever seems it rich to die, to cease upon the midnight with no pain. And in ceasing we lose it all, and in Mahler's ceasing we have gained everything." -- Leonard Bernstein th-cam.com/video/U5I7lYN5adU/w-d-xo.html&t=1378
I always loved Benedict's voice, listening to him was a sort of refugee from my troubled relationship I couldn't escape from, my abusive ex is now gone, and the nights I spent crying are no more. Now I have a new love and his voice is so so similar to Benedict's, but more sweet, I suppose because my love speaks words of love just for me, I'm truly happy today.
A poet more idealistic was perhaps not born ever, and yet by irony of fate has to endure such a notion - genius was at his every breath and yet he had to harbour such thoughts!
Well, I don't think the snobbish critics were very kind back in the day. To be able to compose poetry like that which leaves the heart wanting more. Such melancholy, but yet beautiful, with a wonderful reading by Benedict Cumberbatch. Amazing!
Better than other recitations - 'Lethe' > 'Leth-e', 'delved' > 'delv-ed'. Was going well until 'pineth' > became 'pine-eth'. As if there was a piano metronome in the background. Lovely voice and I am a great fan, but I do not not get from any of the recitations so far the realization of the pain of the transience of life. The beautiful words, the song of the nightingale - hope I'll hear this some day - are like a cloak that Keats uses to shield himself from his pain and loss. That's a hard ask though, but that's what I feel the most when I read this poem: 'Man can only bear so much reality'.
Ode to a Nightingale 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?
Ode to a Nightingale John Keates 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?
By all means enjoy Benedict's voice, but please don't take this as a model of how the poem should be spoken. This version contains at least ten errors, mostly of pronunciation. It's disappointing that the admired actor should show such a casual disregard for this great work. The video has been viewed many times. Should we lament the power of celebrity to downgrade and ultimately destroy our culture? Or should we celebrate the fact that Benedict has brought the poem to countless new listeners, some of whom might go on to investigate it in more depth? Do I wake or sleep?
Rest assured Benedict has brought it to thousands people who would have , otherwise, never ventured into such literary art. The reach is far to the point he made me, a person who lives on the other far side of the world, dare to go there despite my shortcomings. There are thousands if not not millions like me. English isn’t even our mother tongue. If anyone should be blamed for keeping errors it’s definitely people who oversee his work. I mean the “penguiwing” incident is still relevant to this day and despite it helping the documentary go viral and making us laugh and love Ben the dork even more, I still ask the question like he did. Where are those experts who oversee his work? It’s not like he does it in isolation. 😊
@@kindabatooni9314 Hello Kinda batooni. Greetings from England. It's very nice to hear from you. I'm so glad that you admire this wonderful poem. It's one of my favourites. I take your point, but I think that while Benedict will certainly have a director when he acts in a play or film, someone in his position is unlikely to have any 'experts' to oversee his reading of a poem. Therefore I feel that he has a responsibility to do his own research, as a mark of respect both to the poet and to the audience. A better rendition by Benedict would be a real treasure. Wish you all the best. Arlo.
![มองหน้ากันไม่ติด (Awkward) - โอ๊ต ปราโมทย์ FEAT. MAIYARAP [Official MV]](http://i.ytimg.com/vi/4b02SY_r6Gw/mqdefault.jpg)
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?
Sublime.
Benedict's voice, Mahler's music and Keats' verses. Paradise on Earth.
"We are half in love with easeful Death;
now more than ever seems it rich to die,
to cease upon the midnight with no pain.
And in ceasing we lose it all,
and in Mahler's ceasing we have gained everything."
-- Leonard Bernstein
th-cam.com/video/U5I7lYN5adU/w-d-xo.html&t=1378
ABSOLUTELY YES AND YES !!!
@@stylusfantasticus But what is the Mahler? Why wouldn't they credit it?
Benedict's voice..........like butter, I tell you!!! Butta!!!
Doctor: You have 5:35 minutes left to live.
Me: :^)
absolutely nothing Doctor.....Strange?
He has the perfect voice for ASMR. Like... no joke. He really should do ASMR.
My soul did a weird thing and really attached itself to this poem + the music + Benedict’s voice.
I have already melted...
imagine what it must be like to wake up to that voice whispering in your ear... one can only dream
Ada my god one can only dream indeed. SIGH... 😪💞
And I'm ded now
Beautiful rendition. Thank you Mr. Cumberbatch.
I always loved Benedict's voice, listening to him was a sort of refugee from my troubled relationship I couldn't escape from, my abusive ex is now gone, and the nights I spent crying are no more. Now I have a new love and his voice is so so similar to Benedict's, but more sweet, I suppose because my love speaks words of love just for me, I'm truly happy today.
"A thing of beauty is a joy forever."~from his "Endymion"
Keats painted a masterpiece with words, so utterly beautiful but heartbreaking. Do I wake or do I sleep?
my favorite poem ever. Here the english language has his maximum
Ben's voice is majestic as fuck 😍
Alina Coronado It's a shame you are not as well educated as he or Mr. Wordsworth.
+Allison Townes who the fuck said anything about education. I'm complenting his voice dumbass
Haha. It's definitely a plus to admire the beauty of this ode as well as enjoy his voice. It's one of my favorites.
Bana Aassy RIGHT 😄😄
Take it easy, please..
Keats* greatest romantic poets of his time, dies at 25; penniless, broken hearted, & thinking he was a failure as a poet.
A poet more idealistic was perhaps not born ever, and yet by irony of fate has to endure such a notion - genius was at his every breath and yet he had to harbour such thoughts!
Well, I don't think the snobbish critics were very kind back in the day. To be able to compose poetry like that which leaves the heart wanting more. Such melancholy, but yet beautiful, with a wonderful reading by Benedict Cumberbatch.
Amazing!
This is beautiful, the poem, his deep voice, and the music all at once.
MUSIC BY GUSTAV MAHLER, master of the nostalgic.
Ben's voice❤️❤️❤️ my God..... I can die for this voice
If words are the blood of the soul this beautiful poem will be written there!!!
I still melt every time I hear this omgggg
Better than other recitations - 'Lethe' > 'Leth-e', 'delved' > 'delv-ed'. Was going well until 'pineth' > became 'pine-eth'. As if there was a piano metronome in the background. Lovely voice and I am a great fan, but I do not not get from any of the recitations so far the realization of the pain of the transience of life. The beautiful words, the song of the nightingale - hope I'll hear this some day - are like a cloak that Keats uses to shield himself from his pain and loss. That's a hard ask though, but that's what I feel the most when I read this poem: 'Man can only bear so much reality'.
its so beautiful so delightful just and simply amazing
I find so much comfort through this. One of my favourites to recite.
That one dislike was Martin freeman
Wow, this is absolutely incredible. BC is the man!
omg !!! this is perfection !!!
My favorite
so peaceful !
This is beautiful
awesome...
Heaven on earth, this man. He is an angel
Thanks Kim...
i am almost crying it it so..........
*this... can not not make you cry*
Dammit! I just washed these pants! Curse you, Cumberbatch!
Music is from Mahler's 5th
wonderful , thanks -...
o blessed Miny: thy wings be still and with me.....
beautiful
Wow❤
Simply beatifu
This is a great video to fall asleep to, it really works :))))
True, have done it myself many a times. I’ve had the best naps, when this was playing in the background.
Absolutely wonderful!
If I said this once, I'll say it a thousand more times....
BEN NEEDS TO DO ASMR!!!!!!!
Ode to a Nightingale
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?
Thank you...
Mahler Adagietto Symphony No. 5
The dislikes come from Moriarty and John😂
💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖
wow asmr
Ode to a Nightingale
John Keates
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?
thank you very much...
his voice is.................
Where youth grows pale....💔💔
Is there somewhere to get a download of just the audio?
If you are interested in an analysis of this poem, please click here: th-cam.com/video/PoVy5zvRJHc/w-d-xo.html
Can anyone tell me, where to find that picture?
Okay
Aroused and emotional at the same time. Ngh.
please mr cumberbatch no mo cigs! ur voice is getting craggy at such a young age. be well sir!
By all means enjoy Benedict's voice, but please don't take this as a model of how the poem should be spoken. This version contains at least ten errors, mostly of pronunciation. It's disappointing that the admired actor should show such a casual disregard for this great work.
The video has been viewed many times. Should we lament the power of celebrity to downgrade and ultimately destroy our culture? Or should we celebrate the fact that Benedict has brought the poem to countless new listeners, some of whom might go on to investigate it in more depth? Do I wake or sleep?
Rest assured Benedict has brought it to thousands people who would have , otherwise, never ventured into such literary art. The reach is far to the point he made me, a person who lives on the other far side of the world, dare to go there despite my shortcomings. There are thousands if not not millions like me. English isn’t even our mother tongue. If anyone should be blamed for keeping errors it’s definitely people who oversee his work. I mean the “penguiwing” incident is still relevant to this day and despite it helping the documentary go viral and making us laugh and love Ben the dork even more, I still ask the question like he did. Where are those experts who oversee his work? It’s not like he does it in isolation. 😊
@@kindabatooni9314 Hello Kinda batooni. Greetings from England. It's very nice to hear from you. I'm so glad that you admire this wonderful poem. It's one of my favourites.
I take your point, but I think that while Benedict will certainly have a director when he acts in a play or film, someone in his position is unlikely to have any 'experts' to oversee his reading of a poem. Therefore I feel that he has a responsibility to do his own research, as a mark of respect both to the poet and to the audience. A better rendition by Benedict would be a real treasure.
Wish you all the best. Arlo.
If you are interested in an analysis of this poem, please click here: th-cam.com/video/PoVy5zvRJHc/w-d-xo.html