| dbo:abstract
|
- John Keats /dʒɒn ˈkiːts/, né le 31 octobre 1795 à Londres et mort le 23 février 1821 à Rome, est un poète britannique considéré comme un romantique de la deuxième génération, celle de Lord Byron et de Percy Bysshe Shelley. Il commence à être publié en 1817, soit quatre années avant sa mort de la phtisie, à vingt-cinq ans. La poésie de John Keats se réclame de nombreux genres, du sonnet et de la romance spensérienne jusqu'à l'épopée inspirée par John Milton et qu'il remodèle selon ses exigences. Ses œuvres les plus admirées sont les six odes datées de 1819, l'Ode sur l'indolence, l'Ode sur la mélancolie, l'Ode à Psyché, l'Ode sur une urne grecque, l'Ode à un rossignol et l'Ode à l'automne, souvent considérée comme le poème le plus abouti jamais écrit en anglais. De son vivant, Keats n'est point associé aux principaux poètes de la mouvance romantique, et lui-même se sent mal à l'aise en leur compagnie. En dehors du cercle d'intellectuels libéraux gravitant autour de son ami, l'écrivain Leigh Hunt, son œuvre se voit critiquée par les commentateurs conservateurs comme étant mièvre et de mauvais goût, de la « poésie de parvenu » selon John Gibson Lockhart, et d'après John Wilson Croker « mal écrite et vulgaire ». En revanche, à partir de la fin de son siècle, la gloire de Keats ne cesse de croître : il est alors compté parmi les plus grands poètes de langue anglaise et ses œuvres en vers, tout comme sa correspondance — essentiellement avec son frère cadet George et quelques amis —, figurent parmi les textes les plus commentés de la littérature anglaise. Le lecteur est sensible à la richesse mélancolique de son imagerie très sensuelle, en particulier dans la série des odes, que sous-tend un imaginaire paroxystique privilégiant l'émotion souvent transmise à travers la comparaison ou la métaphore. De plus, son langage poétique, choix des mots et agencement prosodique, se caractérise par une lenteur et une plénitude éloignées des usages instaurés en 1798 par la publication du recueil de poèmes de William Wordsworth et Samuel Taylor Coleridge, les Ballades lyriques. (fr)
- John Keats /dʒɒn ˈkiːts/, né le 31 octobre 1795 à Londres et mort le 23 février 1821 à Rome, est un poète britannique considéré comme un romantique de la deuxième génération, celle de Lord Byron et de Percy Bysshe Shelley. Il commence à être publié en 1817, soit quatre années avant sa mort de la phtisie, à vingt-cinq ans. La poésie de John Keats se réclame de nombreux genres, du sonnet et de la romance spensérienne jusqu'à l'épopée inspirée par John Milton et qu'il remodèle selon ses exigences. Ses œuvres les plus admirées sont les six odes datées de 1819, l'Ode sur l'indolence, l'Ode sur la mélancolie, l'Ode à Psyché, l'Ode sur une urne grecque, l'Ode à un rossignol et l'Ode à l'automne, souvent considérée comme le poème le plus abouti jamais écrit en anglais. De son vivant, Keats n'est point associé aux principaux poètes de la mouvance romantique, et lui-même se sent mal à l'aise en leur compagnie. En dehors du cercle d'intellectuels libéraux gravitant autour de son ami, l'écrivain Leigh Hunt, son œuvre se voit critiquée par les commentateurs conservateurs comme étant mièvre et de mauvais goût, de la « poésie de parvenu » selon John Gibson Lockhart, et d'après John Wilson Croker « mal écrite et vulgaire ». En revanche, à partir de la fin de son siècle, la gloire de Keats ne cesse de croître : il est alors compté parmi les plus grands poètes de langue anglaise et ses œuvres en vers, tout comme sa correspondance — essentiellement avec son frère cadet George et quelques amis —, figurent parmi les textes les plus commentés de la littérature anglaise. Le lecteur est sensible à la richesse mélancolique de son imagerie très sensuelle, en particulier dans la série des odes, que sous-tend un imaginaire paroxystique privilégiant l'émotion souvent transmise à travers la comparaison ou la métaphore. De plus, son langage poétique, choix des mots et agencement prosodique, se caractérise par une lenteur et une plénitude éloignées des usages instaurés en 1798 par la publication du recueil de poèmes de William Wordsworth et Samuel Taylor Coleridge, les Ballades lyriques. (fr)
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| prop-fr:responsabilité
|
- éditeur scientifique (fr)
- Maura Del Serra, Introduction (fr)
- Alex Preminger, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- Christian La Cassagnère, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- Christian La Cassagère, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- Christian Lacassagnère, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- Douwe Fokkema, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- Edward Hirsch, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- H. E. Rollins, éditeur scientifiques (fr)
- H. Milford, responsable scientifique (fr)
- Jack Stillinger, responsable scientifique (fr)
- Jane Campion, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- John Strachan, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- Jon Mee, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- Juliette-Charles Du Bos, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- Richard Houghton, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- Robert Davreux, traduction et présentation (fr)
- Robert Gittings, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- Roger Bauer, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- Susan J. Wolfson, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- T. V. F. Brogan, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- traduction, préface et notes (fr)
- éditeur scientifique (fr)
- Maura Del Serra, Introduction (fr)
- Alex Preminger, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- Christian La Cassagnère, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- Christian La Cassagère, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- Christian Lacassagnère, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- Douwe Fokkema, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- Edward Hirsch, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- H. E. Rollins, éditeur scientifiques (fr)
- H. Milford, responsable scientifique (fr)
- Jack Stillinger, responsable scientifique (fr)
- Jane Campion, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- John Strachan, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- Jon Mee, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- Juliette-Charles Du Bos, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- Richard Houghton, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- Robert Davreux, traduction et présentation (fr)
- Robert Gittings, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- Roger Bauer, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- Susan J. Wolfson, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- T. V. F. Brogan, éditeur scientifique (fr)
- traduction, préface et notes (fr)
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| prop-fr:texte
|
- Queen's Gold Medal for Poetry (fr)
- Higher School Certificate (fr)
- Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. (fr)
- O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge is withered from the lake
And no birds sing.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done. (fr)
- Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death. (fr)
- Il est étrange que l'intelligence, cette parcelle de feu,
Se laisse éteindre par un article (fr)
- Ark John Keats Academy (fr)
- Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He star'd at the Pacific—and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise—
Silent, upon a peak in Darien. (fr)
- College Board (fr)
- Key stages (fr)
- Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star,
Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; (fr)
- My spirit is too weak — mortality
Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep,
And each imagined pinnacle and steep
Of godlike hardship tells me I must die
Like a sick eagle looking at the sky. (fr)
- réseau Ark (fr)
- Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kist
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the be
Your , nor the downy owl
A partner in your 's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too ,
And the wakeful anguish of the soul. (fr)
- This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calm'd–see here it is–
I hold it towards you. (fr)
- Ane Lycius arms were empty of delight,
As were his limbs of Life, from that same night. (fr)
- My spirit is too weak—mortality
Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep,
And each imagined pinnacle and steep
Of godlike hardship tells me I must die
Like a sick eagle looking at the sky.
Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep
That I have not the cloudy winds to keep
Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye.
Such dim-conceived glories of the brain
Bring round the heart an undescribable feud;
So do these wonders a most dizzy pain,
That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude
Wasting of old time—with a billowy main—
A sun—a shadow of a magnitude. (fr)
- When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charact'ry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love!—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. (fr)
- What 'leaf-fring'd 'legend 'haunts a'bout thy 'shape
Of 'deities or 'mortals or of 'both (fr)
- First the realm I'll pass
Of Flora, and old Pan ...
I must pass them for a nobler life,
Where I may find the agonies, the strife
Of human hearts . (fr)
- Spenserian vowels that elope with ease
,
And float along like birds over summer seas. (fr)
- Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,
Blue, silver-white, and Tyrian,
They lay calm-breathing, on the bedded grass;
Their arms , and their pinions too;
Their lips , but had not bade adieu,
As if by soft- 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?
His Psyche true! (fr)
- That in short space his wonted chearful Hue
Gan fade, and lively Spirits deaded quite:
His Cheek-bones raw, and Eye-pits hollow grew,
And brawny Arms had lost their knowen Might,
That nothing like himself he seem'd in sight.
E'er long, so weak of Limb, and sick of Love
He woxe, that lenger he n'ote stand upright,
But to his Bed was brought, and laid above,
Like rueful Ghost, unable once to stir or move (fr)
- Advanced Placement English Literature and Composition (fr)
- O Thou whose face hath felt the Winter's wind,
Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist,
And the black elm tops 'mong the freezing stars,
To thee the spring will be a harvest-time.
O thou, whose only book has been the light
Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on
Night after night when Phœbus was away,
To thee the Spring shall be a triple morn.
O fret not after knowledge—I have none,
And yet my song comes native with the warmth.
O fret not after knowledge—I have none,
And yet the Evening listens. He who saddens
At the thought of idleness cannot be idle,
And he's awake who thinks himself asleep. (fr)
- Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle
Should let itself be snuffed out by an article. (fr)
- Wordsworth : Peter Bell
And now is Peter taught to feel
That man's heart is a holy thing;
And Nature, through a world of death,
Breathes into him a second breath,
More searching than the breath of spring. (fr)
- The loveliest and the last,
The bloom, whose petals nipped before they blew
Died on the promise of the fruit. (fr)
- Queen's Gold Medal for Poetry (fr)
- Higher School Certificate (fr)
- Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. (fr)
- O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge is withered from the lake
And no birds sing.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done. (fr)
- Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death. (fr)
- Il est étrange que l'intelligence, cette parcelle de feu,
Se laisse éteindre par un article (fr)
- Ark John Keats Academy (fr)
- Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He star'd at the Pacific—and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise—
Silent, upon a peak in Darien. (fr)
- College Board (fr)
- Key stages (fr)
- Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star,
Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; (fr)
- My spirit is too weak — mortality
Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep,
And each imagined pinnacle and steep
Of godlike hardship tells me I must die
Like a sick eagle looking at the sky. (fr)
- réseau Ark (fr)
- Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kist
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the be
Your , nor the downy owl
A partner in your 's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too ,
And the wakeful anguish of the soul. (fr)
- This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calm'd–see here it is–
I hold it towards you. (fr)
- Ane Lycius arms were empty of delight,
As were his limbs of Life, from that same night. (fr)
- My spirit is too weak—mortality
Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep,
And each imagined pinnacle and steep
Of godlike hardship tells me I must die
Like a sick eagle looking at the sky.
Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep
That I have not the cloudy winds to keep
Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye.
Such dim-conceived glories of the brain
Bring round the heart an undescribable feud;
So do these wonders a most dizzy pain,
That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude
Wasting of old time—with a billowy main—
A sun—a shadow of a magnitude. (fr)
- When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charact'ry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love!—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. (fr)
- What 'leaf-fring'd 'legend 'haunts a'bout thy 'shape
Of 'deities or 'mortals or of 'both (fr)
- First the realm I'll pass
Of Flora, and old Pan ...
I must pass them for a nobler life,
Where I may find the agonies, the strife
Of human hearts . (fr)
- Spenserian vowels that elope with ease
,
And float along like birds over summer seas. (fr)
- Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,
Blue, silver-white, and Tyrian,
They lay calm-breathing, on the bedded grass;
Their arms , and their pinions too;
Their lips , but had not bade adieu,
As if by soft- 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?
His Psyche true! (fr)
- That in short space his wonted chearful Hue
Gan fade, and lively Spirits deaded quite:
His Cheek-bones raw, and Eye-pits hollow grew,
And brawny Arms had lost their knowen Might,
That nothing like himself he seem'd in sight.
E'er long, so weak of Limb, and sick of Love
He woxe, that lenger he n'ote stand upright,
But to his Bed was brought, and laid above,
Like rueful Ghost, unable once to stir or move (fr)
- Advanced Placement English Literature and Composition (fr)
- O Thou whose face hath felt the Winter's wind,
Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist,
And the black elm tops 'mong the freezing stars,
To thee the spring will be a harvest-time.
O thou, whose only book has been the light
Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on
Night after night when Phœbus was away,
To thee the Spring shall be a triple morn.
O fret not after knowledge—I have none,
And yet my song comes native with the warmth.
O fret not after knowledge—I have none,
And yet the Evening listens. He who saddens
At the thought of idleness cannot be idle,
And he's awake who thinks himself asleep. (fr)
- Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle
Should let itself be snuffed out by an article. (fr)
- Wordsworth : Peter Bell
And now is Peter taught to feel
That man's heart is a holy thing;
And Nature, through a world of death,
Breathes into him a second breath,
More searching than the breath of spring. (fr)
- The loveliest and the last,
The bloom, whose petals nipped before they blew
Died on the promise of the fruit. (fr)
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