Music Welcome to snoozecast. The podcast designed to help you fall asleep. Find us at snoozecast.com. And if you enjoy our show, please write a review. This helps new listeners to find us and we love getting your feedback. This episode is brought to you by Heaven and its mysteries. Tonight, we'll read poems by John Keats, starting with one titled, Sleep and Poetry. John Keats' poems are a major part of English romantic poetry. They portray settings loaded with symbolism and sensuality, and draw heavily on Greek and Roman myth, along with romanticized tales of chivalry. Keats died in 1821 at the young age of 25, having breathingden the majority of his work in less than four years. In his lifetime, sales of Keats' three volumes of poetry probably amounted to only 200 copies. The compression of his poetic apprenticeship and maturity into so short a time is just one remarkable aspect of Keats' work. Keats was convinced that he had made no mark in his lifetime, aware that he was dying, he wrote, I have left no immortal work behind me, nothing to make my friends proud of my memory,

but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time, I would have made myself remembered." Keats' ability and talent was acknowledged by several influential contemporary allies. His admirers praised him for having developed a style which was heavily loaded with sensualities, more gorgeous in its effects, more voluptuously alive than any poet who had come before him. While not appreciated during his lifetime, He has gone on to become one of the most

loved of the romantic poets and has provided inspiration to many authors after him.

Let's get cozy.

Close your eyes.

Relax your body into the softness of your bed.

Now, take a few deep breaths. Sleep and poetry. What is more gentle than a wind in summer? is more soothing than the pretty hummer that stays one moment in an open flower and buzzes cheerily from power to power. What is more tranquil than a musk rose blowing in a green island far from all men's knowing.

More helpful than the leafiness of dails, more secret than a nest of nightingales,

more serene than Cordelia's countenance,

more full of visions than a high romance.

What but the sleep soft soft closer of our eyes, low murmur of tender lelebi's? Light hover around our happy pillows, Reather of poppy buds and weeping willows, Silent entangler of a beauty's trusses. Most happy listener, when the morning blesses the foreign livening all the cheerful eyes that glance so brightly at the new sunrise. But what is higher beyond thought than the fresher than berries of a mountain tree?

More strange, more beautiful, more smooth,

more regal than wings of swans,

than doves,

than dim-seen eagle?

What is it?

And to what shall I compare it?

It has a glory and not else can share it. The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy, chasing away all worldliness and folly, coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder, or the low rumbling's earth's regions under, and sometimes like a gentle whispering of all the secrets of some wondrous thing that breathes about us in the vacant air, so that we look around with prying stare. Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial, limbing, and catch soft floatings from a faint herd himming. To see the laurel wreath on high suspended, that is to crown our name when life is ended. Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice and from the heart of springs rejoice, rejoice. Sounds which will reach the framer of all things and die away in ardent mutterings. No one who wants the glorious sun has seen and all the the clouds, and felt his bosom clean for his great-makers presence, but must know what his I mean, and feel his being glow. Therefore no insult will I give his spirit, by telling what he sees from native merit. Oh, Posey, for thee I hold my pen, that am not yet a glorious denizen of thy wide heaven, should I rather kneel upon some mountain top, until I feel a growing splendor round about me hung and echo back the voice of thine own tongue. Oh, Posey, for thee I grasp my pen, that am not yet a glorious denizen of thy wide heaven, yet to my ardent prayer, yield from thy sanctuary some clean air, smooth for intoxication by the breath of flowering bays, that I may die a death of luxury, and my young spirit follow the great morning sunbeams of Apollo, like a fresh sacrifice, or, if I can bear the overwhelming sweets, to bring to me the fair visions of all places, a bowry nook will be a lishum, an eternal book whence I may copy many a lovely saying about the leaves and flowers, about the playing of nymphs in woods and fountains, and the shade, keeping a silence round a sleeping maid, and many of us from so strange influence that we must ever wonder how and once it came. So imaginings will hover round my fireside, and happily their discover, Vistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wander in happy silence, like the clear meanderer through its lone veils, and where I found a spot of off-lar-shade, or an enchanted grot, or a green hill, or spread with checkered dress of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness, right on my tablets all that was permitted, all that was for our human senses fitted. Then the vents of this wide world I'd seize, like a strong giant, and my spirit teased till added shoulders it should proudly see wings to find out in immortality. Stop and consider, life is but a day, a fragile do-drop on its perilous way from a tree summit, a poor Indian sleep, while his boat hastens to the monstrous steep of malmorensi. Why so sad a moan? Life is a rose's hope while yet unblown. The reading of an ever-changing tale. The light uplifting of a maiden's veil. A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air. A laughing schoolboy without grief or care., riding the springy branches of an elm. Oh, for ten years that I may overwhelm myself in posse, so I may do the deed that my own soul has to itself decreed. Then I will pass the countries that I see in long perspective and continually taste their pure fountains. First the realm I'll pass a flora and old pan, sleep in the grass, feed upon apples red strawberries, and choose each pleasure that my fancy seas. Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places, to woo sweet kisses from averted faces. Play with their fingers, touch their white shoulders into a pretty shrinking with a bite as hard as lips can make it, till agreed a lovely tale of human life will read. And one will teach a tame dove how it best may fan the cool air gently over my wrist. Another bending or her nimble tread will set a green robe floating round her head, and still will dance with ever varied ease, smiling upon the flowers and the trees. Another will entice me on and on through almond blossoms and rich cinnamon, till in the bosom of a leafy world will rest in silence like two gems upcurled in the recesses of a pearly shell.

And can I ever bid these joys farewell? Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life, where I may find the agonies, the strife of human hearts for low I see far, or sailing the blue craginess, a car and steeds with streaming mains. The chariot here looks out upon the winds with glorious fear, and now the numerous trampling squiver lightly, along a huge clouds-rich, and now, with Spritely wheeled downward come they into fresher skies, tipped round with silver from the sun's bright eyes. Still downward with capricious whirl they glide, and now I see them on a green hill's side in breezy rest among the nodding stalks. The chariot here with wondrous gesture talks to the trees and mountains, and there soon appear shapes of delight, of mystery, fear. Passing along before a dusky space, made by some mighty oaks, as they would chase some ever fleeting music, on they sweep, low, how they murmur, laugh and smile, and weep, Some with a hold in hand and mouth severe, Some with their faces muffled to the ear between their arms, Some clear and youthful bloom, Go glad and smiling, afford the gloom, Some looking back, and some with upward gaze. Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways, flit onward. Now a lovely wreath of girls, dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls. And now broad wings, most awfully intent, the driver of those steets is forward bent, and seems to listen, oh, that I might know all that he writes with such a hurry and glow. The visions all are fled, the car is fled into the light of heaven, and in their stead a sense of real things comes doubly strong, and like a muddy stream would bear along my soul to nothingness, but I will strive against all doubtings, and will keep alive the thought of that same chariot, and the strange journey it went. Is there so small a range in the present strength of manhood that the high imagination cannot freely fly as she was want of old? There her steeds, pull up against the light, and do strange deeds upon the clouds. Has she not shown us all from the clear space of ether to the small breath of new buds unfolding, from the meaning of Joves's large eyebrow, to the tender greening of April Meadows, hear her altar shown, in in the style, and who could paragon the fervid choir that lifted up a noise of harmony to where it I will poise its mighty self of convoluting sound. Huge as a planet, and like that roll round, eternally around a dizzy void. I, in those days the muses were nighcloid with honors, nor had any other care, then to sing out and soothe their wavy hair. Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a schism nurtured by foparry and barbarism, made great Apollo blush for this his land. men were thought wise who could not understand his glories with a pilling infants' force. They swayed about upon a rocking horse and thought it Pegasus. Ah, dismal sold, the winds of heaven blew, the ocean rolled its gathering waves. He felt it not, the blue-beard its eternal bosom, and the dew of summer nights collected, still to make the morning precious. Beauty was awake.

Why were you not awake?

But you were dead to things you not knew.

Were closely wed to musty laws lined out

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