To John Keats, Poet. at Spring Time
I cannot hold my peace, John Keats;There never was a spring like this;It is an echo, that repeatsMy last year’s song and next year’s bliss.I know, in spite of all men sayOf Beauty, you have felt her most.Yea, even in your grave her wayIs laid. Poor, troubled, lyric ghost,Spring never was so fair and dearAs Beauty makes her seem this year.
I cannot hold my peace, John Keats,I am as helpless in the toilOf Spring as any lamb that bleatsTo feel the solid earth recoilBeneath his puny legs. Spring beatsHer tocsin call to those who love her,And lo! the dogwood petals cover
Her breast with drifts of snow, and sleekWhite gulls fly screaming to her, and hoverAbout her shoulders, and kiss her cheek,While white and purple lilacs musterA strength that bears them to a clusterOf color and odor; for her sakeAll things that slept are now awake.
And you and I, shall we lie still,John Keats, while Beauty summons us?Somehow I feel your sensitive willIs pulsing up some tremulousSap road of a maple tree, whose leavesGrow music as they grow, since yourWild voice is in them, a harp that grievesFor life that opens death’s dark door.Though dust, your fingers still can pushThe Vision Splendid to a birth,Though now they work as grass in the hushOf the night on the broad sweet page of the earth.
“John Keats is dead,” they say, but IWho hear your full insistent cryIn bud and blossom, leaf and tree,Know John Keats still writes poetry.And while my head is earthward bowedTo read new life sprung from your shroud,Folks seeing me must think it strangeThat merely spring should so derangeMy mind. They do not know that you,John Keats, keep revel with me, too.
Words in this poem
- ghost n.
- The spirit; the soul of man. [OE. gast, gost, soul, spirit, AS. gast breath, spirit, soul; akin to OS. g spirit, soul, D. geest, G. geist, and prob. to E. gaze, ghastly.]
- puny a.
- Imperfectly developed in size or vigor; small and feeble; inferior; petty. [F. puîté younger, later born, OF. puisné; puis afterwards (L. post; see Post-) + né born, L. natus. See Natal, and cf. Puisne.]
- tocsin n.
- An alarm bell, or the ringing of a bell for the purpose of alarm. [F., fr. OF. toquier to touch, F. toquer (originally, a dialectic form of F. toucher) + seint (for sein) a bell, LL. signum, fr. L. signum a sign, signal. See To]
- screaming a.
- Uttering screams; shrieking.
- hover n.
- A cover; a shelter; a protection. Carew. C. Kingsley. [Etymol. doubtful.]
- muster n.
- Something shown for imitation; a pattern. [OE. moustre, OF. mostre, moustre, F. montre, LL. monstra. See Muster, v. t.]
- shall v. i.
- To owe; to be under obligation for. [OE. shal, schal, imp. sholde, scholde, AS. scal, sceal, I am obliged, imp. scolde, sceolde, inf. sculan; akin to OS. skulan, pres. skal, imp. skolda, D. zullen,]
- somehow adv.
- In one way or another; in some way not yet known or designated; by some means; as, the thing must be done somehow; he lives somehow.
- insistent a.
- Standing or resting on something; as, an insistent wall. Sir H. [L. insistens, -entis, p. pr. of insistere.]
- earthward adv.
- Toward the earth; -- opposed to heavenward or skyward.
- folks n.
- In Anglo-Saxon times, the people of a group of townships or villages; a community; a tribe. [AS. folc; akin to D. volk, OS. & OHG. folk, G. volk, Icel. f, Sw. & Dan. folk, Lith. pulkas crowd, and perh. to E. follow.]
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
To John Keats, Poet. at Spring Time is in the public domain. This text is taken from Color, Project Gutenberg ebook #70543; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Countee Cullen, To John Keats, Poet. at Spring Time, in Color (1925), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #70543, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/cullen-color/to-john-keats-poet-at-spring-time.html, id L01482.
Form and metre
To John Keats, Poet. at Spring Time is 46 lines in 5 stanzas. The metre is iambic tetrameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 87%). 96% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 8.3 syllables. 6 lines end on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 56% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in iambic tetrameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 ABABCDCDEE keatsA · thisB · repeatsA · blissB · sayC · mostD · wayC · ghostD · dearE · yearE
- 2 ABABA-- keatsA · toilB · bleatsA · recoilB · beatsA · her · cover
- 3 A-ABBCC sleekA · hover · cheekA · musterB · clusterB · sakeC · awakeC
- 4 ABABCDCD-E-E stillA · usB · willA · tremulousB · leavesC · yourD · grievesC · doorD · push · birthE · hush · earthE
- 5 AAA-BBCCDD iA · cryA · treeA · poetry · bowedB · shroudB · strangeC · derangeC · youD · tooD
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic tetrameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| I cannot hold my peace, John Keats; | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| There never was a spring like this; | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| It is an echo, that repeats | 8 | ···/˘·˘/ |
| My last year’s song and next year’s bliss. | 8 | ········ |
| I know, in spite of all men say | 8 | ········ |
| Of Beauty, you have felt her most. | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| Yea, even in your grave her way | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| Is laid. Poor, troubled, lyric ghost, | 8 | ···/˘/˘· |
| Spring never was so fair and dear | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| As Beauty makes her seem this year. | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| I cannot hold my peace, John Keats, | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| I am as helpless in the toil | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Of Spring as any lamb that bleats | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| To feel the solid earth recoil | 8 | ···/˘·˘/ |
| Beneath his puny legs. Spring beats | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Her tocsin call to those who love her, | 9 | ·/˘······ |
| And lo! the dogwood petals cover | 9 | ···/·/˘/˘ |
| Her breast with drifts of snow, and sleek | 8 | ········ |
| White gulls fly screaming to her, and hover | 10 | ···/˘···/˘ |
| About her shoulders, and kiss her cheek, | 9 | ···/˘···· |
| While white and purple lilacs muster | 9 | ···/˘/·/˘ |
| A strength that bears them to a cluster | 9 | ·······/˘ |
| Of color and odor; for her sake | 9 | ·/˘·/˘··· |
| All things that slept are now awake. | 8 | ······˘/ |
| And you and I, shall we lie still, | 8 | ········ |
| John Keats, while Beauty summons us? | 8 | ···/˘/˘· |
| Somehow I feel your sensitive will | 8 | /····/˘· |
| Is pulsing up some tremulous | 8 | ·/˘··/˘˘ |
| Sap road of a maple tree, whose leaves | 9 | ····/˘··· |
| Grow music as they grow, since your | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| Wild voice is in them, a harp that grieves | 9 | ········· |
| For life that opens death’s dark door. | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Though dust, your fingers still can push | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| The Vision Splendid to a birth, | 8 | ·/˘/˘··· |
| Though now they work as grass in the hush | 9 | ········· |
| Of the night on the broad sweet page of the earth. | 11 | ··········· |
| “John Keats is dead,” they say, but I | 8 | ········ |
| Who hear your full insistent cry | 8 | ····˘/˘· |
| In bud and blossom, leaf and tree, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Know John Keats still writes poetry. | 8 | ·····/˘˘ |
| And while my head is earthward bowed | 8 | ········ |
| To read new life sprung from your shroud, | 8 | ········ |
| Folks seeing me must think it strange | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| That merely spring should so derange | 8 | ·/˘···˘/ |
| My mind. They do not know that you, | 8 | ········ |
| John Keats, keep revel with me, too. | 8 | ···/˘··· |
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