Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy soul's immensity;Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keepThy heritage, thou eye among the blind,That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,Haunted for ever by the eternal Mind,— Mighty Prophet! If the poem intends solely to sanctify nature, by deifying doves, then Keats may as well have written “Ode to Eros”, a more recognisable god than the ‘latest born’ Olympian Psyche. The first of the odes, “Ode to Psyche”, among other poems that include “Ode to Melancholy”, as well as “Ode to a Nightingale”, revolves around the myth of Psyche becoming a goddess. The poem also establishes a link between the good things in life and melancholy. O GODDESS! I. O latest born and loveliest vision far Of all Olympus’ faded hierarchy!Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region’d star, Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, Nor altar heap’d with flowers;Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan Upon the midnight hours;No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet From chain-swung censer teeming;No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat Of pale-mouth’d prophet dreaming. The original version of this ode is found in the famous spring 1819 journal-letter from Keats to his brother George. Ye blesséd Creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make; I seeThe heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal,The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all. Originally it was a poem intended to be sung, having a metrical structure and celebratory themes. Behold the Child among his new-born blisses. “Ode to Psyche,” in its peaceful description of Eros and Psyche, offers no such disquieting picture of love or art. The page contains the full text of Ode To Psyche. In addition to what the "Ode to Psyche" reveals to the reader about Keats, the poem contains an abundance of imagery felicitously phrased. Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song. The winged Psyche with awaken’d eyes? O Goddess! Because anything good is doomed to end, the poem suggests that all beauty is suffused with a kind of poignant sadness. ODE TO PSYCHE – We are going to read the full text of the poem Ode to Psyche that was written by John Keats. Ode on Melancholy: Text of the Poem. hear these tuneless numbers, wrung By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,And pardon that thy secrets should be sung Even into thine own soft-conched ear:Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see The winged Psyche with awaken’d eyes?I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side In deepest grass, beneath the whisp’ring roof Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran A brooklet, scarce espied: Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed, Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,They lay calm-breathing, on the bedded grass; Their arms embraced, and their pinions too; Their lips touch’d not, but had not bade adieu,As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,And ready still past kisses to outnumber At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: The winged boy I knew;But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove? The poem, “Ode to Psyche” is a Keatsian attempt to meddle with the ode structure of the poem, by inducing an altered sonnet-form in the poem. Ode to Psyche was the second ode, written after the Ode on Indolence. Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: Are yet the fountain-light of all our day. though too late for antique vows, Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,When holy were the haunted forest boughs, Holy the air, the water, and the fire;Yet even in these days so far retir’d From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, Fluttering among the faint Olympians,I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspir’d.So let me be thy choir, and make a moan Upon the midnight hours;Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet From swinged censer teeming;Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Of pale-mouth’d prophet dreaming.Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane In some untrodden region of my mind,Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:Far, far around shall those dark-cluster’d trees Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull’d to sleep;And in the midst of this wide quietnessA rosy sanctuary will I dress With the wreath’d trellis of a working brain, With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,With all the gardener Fancy e’er could feign, Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win,A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in! 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