Music Welcome to snoozecast, the podcast designed to help you fall asleep. Find us at snoozecast.com and wherever you listen to podcasts. If you'd like to listen at free, or unlock our entire vast and snoozy catalog of sleep stories, go to snoozkast.com-plus. 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' work is a cornerstone of English romantic poetry, rich with symbolism, sensual detail, and illusions to Greek and Roman myth, as well as romanticized tales of chivalry. His verse overflows with vivid imagery, nightingales, grition earns, moonlit fields, while also contemplating beauty, truth, and life's transience. Born in London in 1795, Keats trained as a surgeon before devoting himself entirely to poetry. In just four years, he produced the works that would secure his place in literary history, who in his lifetime his books sold barely 200 copies. Today, his name is among the most revered in English literature. Let's get cozy. Close your eyes. Relax your body into the softness of your bed.

Now, take a few deep breaths. So Sleep and poetry. What is more gentle than a wind in summer? What 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. But the sleep, soft closure of our eyes, low murmur of tender lullabies, 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-seeing 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 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 up 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 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 white heaven, should I rather kneel upon some mountaintop, until I feel a growing splendor round about me hung, and echo back the voice of thine own tongue. O posi, 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 a pollo, like a fresh sacrifice, or, if I can bear the overwhelming sweets, to bring to me the fair visions of all places. A bowery nook will be a lissium, an eternal book when 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. Also, 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. the vents of this wide world I-eyed seas, like a strong giant, and my spirit tees 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 of 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 10 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, and 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 His lips can 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. where 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 a 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 sprightly 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 and fear. long before a dus space, made by some mighty oaks as they would chase some ever-fleeting music on their sweep, low, how they murmur, laugh and smile, and weep. Some with a pulled-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, prepare 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' large eyebrow to the tender greening of April Meadows, hear her altar shown, in in the sile, 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 nigh-cloid 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 foppery and barbarism, made great Apollo blush for this his land. and were thought wise who could not understand his glories, with a pilling, infants' force. They swayed about upon a rocking horse, and thought it pegassess. 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 ye not awake? But ye were dead to things ye not knew, were closely wed to musty laws lined out with wretched rule and compass vile, so that ye taught a school of doles to smooth in lay and clip and fit till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit, their verses tallied, easy was the task, a thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask of posee, ill-fated, impious race, that blasphemed the bright learest to his face, and did not know it. No, they went about, holding a poor, decrepit standard out, marked with most flimsy mottos, the name of one puello. O ye whose charge it is to hover round our pleasant hills, whose congregated majesty so fills my boundly reverence That I cannot trace your hallowed names in this unholy place. So near those common folk did not their shames affrite you, Did our old lamenting temps delight you? Did ye never cluster round delicious savor with a mournful sound and weep? Or did ye wholly bid adieu to regions where no more the laurel grew? Or did ye stay to give a welcoming to some lone spirits who could proudly sing their youth away and die. It was even so. But let me think away those times of woe. Now, to the fairer season, ye have breathed rich benedictions or us. E. Heffreath fresh garlands. For sweet music has been heard in many places. Some has been upstored from out its crystal dwelling in a lake by a swan's ebb and bill, from a thick break, nested and quiet in a valley mild. Bubbles of pipe find sounds are floating wild about the earth. Happy are ye and glad. These things are doubtless. Yet in truth we've had strange thunders from the potency of song, mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong from majesty, but in clear truth the themes are ugly clubs. The poets' polyfemes disturbing the gran sea, a drainless shower of light is posy. Tis the supreme of power. Tis might half slumbering on its own right arm. The very arching of her eyelids charm a thousand willing agents to obey. And still she governs with the mildest sway. But strength alone, though of the muses born, is like a fallen angel, trees up torn, darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchers, delighted, for it feeds upon the birds and thorns of life. Forgetting the great end of Posey, that it should be a friend to soothe the cares, and lift the thoughts of man, yet I rejoice a myrtle fairer than errone and paphos. From the bitter weeds, lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds a silent space with ever sprouting green. All tendrous birds there find a pleasant screen, creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering, nibble the little cupped flowers and sing. Then let us clear away the choking thorns from round its gentle stem, let the young fawns enid, and after times, when we are flown, find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown with simple flowers. Let there nothing be more boisterous than a lover's bend-it-ne, not more un-gental than the placid look of one who leans upon a closet book. Not more untrangle than the grassy slopes between two hills, all hail delightful hopes. As she was want, the imagination, into most lovely labyrinths will be gone, and they shall be accounted poet kings, who simply tell the most heart-easing things. Oh may these joys be ripe before I die? not some say that I presumptuously have spoken, that from hastening disgrace tore better far to hide my foolish face, that whining boyhood should, with reverence bow, where the dread thunderbolt could reach. How?

If I do hide myself, it sure shall be in the very feign the light of posi. If I do fall, at least I will be laid beneath the silence of a popular shade, and over me the grass shall be smooth-shaven, and there shall be a kind memorial graven. But off-dispondence, miserable bane, they should not know thee, who a thirst to gain a noble end, our thirsty every hour. What though I am not wealthy in the dower of spanning wisdom, though I do not know the the shifting of the mighty winds that blow hither and thither all the changing thoughts of man, though no great ministering reasoned sorts out the dark mysteries of human souls to clear conceiving, yet there ever rolls a vast idea before me, and I gleaned there from my liberty, thenst to I've seen the end and aim of posse. Is clear as anything most true, as that the year is made of the four seasons, manifest as a strong cross, some old cathedral's, lifted to the white clouds.

Therefore, should I be, but the essence of deformity, a coward, did my very eyelids wink at speaking out what I have dared to think. Ah, rather let me like a madman run over some precipice.

Let the hot sun melt my wings, and drive me down convulset and headlong. Stay, an inward frown of conscience bids me be more calm a while. Ocean Dim dim, sprinkled with many anile. Spreads awfully before me. How much toil? How many days? What desperate turmoil? Air I can have explored its widenesses. Ah, what a task! Upon my bended knees, I could unsee those, no, impossible, impossible. For sweet relief felt well on humbler thoughts, and let this strange assay be gone in gentleness die so away. Even now, all tumult from my bosom fades, I turn full-hearted to the friendly aides that smooth the path of honor, brotherhood, and friendliness the nurse with mutual good. The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet into the brain air one can think upon it. The silence when some rhymes are coming out, and when there come the very pleasant route. The message certain to be done tomorrow. Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrow some precious book from out its snug retreat to cluster round it when we next shall meet. Can I can I scribble on, for lovely airs are fluttering round the room like doves and pears. Many delights of that glad day are calling, when first my senses caught their tender falling. And with these airs come forms of elegance, stooping their shoulders over a horse's prance, careless and grand, fingers soft and round, parting luxuriant curls, and the swift bound of bocus from his chariot when his eye made Ariadne's cheek look blushingly. Thus I remember all the pleasant flow of words at opening a portfolio. Things such as these are ever harbingers to trains of peaceful images. The stirs of a swan's neck unseen among the rushes, a limit starting all about the bushes. A butterfly with golden wings broad-parted, nestling a rose, convulsed as though it smarted. With overpleasure, many, many more, my diandole jet large in all my store of luxuries, But I must not forget, sleep, quiet with his poppy coronet. For what there may be worthy in these rhymes I partly owe to him, and thus the chimes of friendly voices had not just given place to a sweet of silence when I began retrace the pleasant day upon a couch at ease.

It was a poet's house who keeps the keys of Pleasure's temple.

Roundabout were hung the glorious features of the barns who sung in other ages. Cold and sacred busts smiled at each other. Happy he who trust to clear futureity his darling fame. Then there were fawns, taking aim at swelling apples with a frisky leap and reaching fingers, middle-lushes heap of fine leaves. Then there rose to view a fain of marble, and there too to train of nymphs approaching fairly over the sword. One, loveliest, holding her white hand toward the dazzling sunrise. Two sisters, sweet bending, their graceful figures till they meet over the trippings of a little child.

And some are hearing eagerly, the wild thrilling liquidity of dewy piping. See, and another picture. Nymphs are wiping cherishingly Diana's Timurus limbs. A fold of Lonnie Mantle dabbling swims at the bath's edge and keeps a gentle motion with the subsiding crystal. As when ocean heaves calmly its broad swelling smoothness or its rocky march and balances once more the patient weeds that now unshent by phone, feel all about their undulating home. Sappho's meek head was there half smiling down at nothing, just as though the earnest frown of overthinking had that moment gone from off her brow and left her all alone. Great Alfred's too, with anxious pitting eyes, as if he always listened to the the size of the Godid world by horrid soft-friends mightily forlorn. Most happy day for over them was seen a free display of outspread wings and from between and them shone the face of posi.

From off her throne she overlooked things that I scarce could tell. The very sense of where I was might well keep sleep aloof, but more than that there came thought after thought to nourish up the flame within my breast so that the morning light surprised me even from a sleepless night. End up by rose refreshed and glad and gay.

Resolving to begin that very day, these lines

and how so ever they be done,

I leave them as a father does his son. one. Yn yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n y