"Ode on Indolence" is (probably) one of the earliest of John Keats's great Odes, a sequence of six poems he composed between the spring and autumn of 1819. In this poem, a speaker (who has more than a little in common with Keats himself) wakes up one morning to find he's being persecuted by three symbolic figures: Love, Ambition, and Poesy. Dressed in Grecian robes, this trio marches back and forth across the speaker's vision, demanding that he get up and make something of himself. He resists, though, preferring "honied indolence"—sweet laziness—to bustle and action. This poem suggests that receptive, contemplative being is as important a part of artistic creation as active, energetic doing. Keats never published this poem; it first appeared in the posthumous collection Life, Letters, and Literary Remains of John Keats (1848).
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"They toil not, neither do they spin."
1One morn before me were three figures seen,
2With bowed necks, and joined hands, side-faced;
3And one behind the other stepp'd serene,
4In placid sandals, and in white robes graced:
5They pass'd, like figures on a marble Urn,
6When shifted round to see the other side;
7They came again; as when the Urn once more
8Is shifted round, the first seen Shades return;
9And they were strange to me, as may betide
10With Vases, to one deep in Phidian lore.
11How is it, Shadows, that I knew ye not?
12How came ye muffled in so hush a Masque?
13Was it a silent deep-disguised plot
14To steal away, and leave without a task
15My idle days? Ripe was the drowsy hour;
16The blissful cloud of summer-indolence
17Benumb'd my eyes; my pulse grew less and less;
18Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath no flower.
19O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense
20Unhaunted quite of all but—nothingness?
21A third time pass'd they by, and, passing, turn'd
22Each one the face a moment whiles to me;
23Then faded, and to follow them I burn'd
24And ached for wings, because I knew the three:
25The first was a fair Maid, and Love her name;
26The second was Ambition, pale of cheek,
27And ever watchful with fatigued eye;
28The last, whom I love more, the more of blame
29Is heap'd upon her, Maiden most unmeek,—
30I knew to be my demon Poesy.
31They faded, and, forsooth! I wanted wings:
32O folly! What is love? and where is it?
33And for that poor Ambition—it springs
34From a man's little heart’s short fever-fit;
35For Poesy!—no,—she has not a joy,—
36At least for me,—so sweet as drowsy noons,
37And evenings steep'd in honied indolence;
38O, for an age so shelter'd from annoy,
39That I may never know how change the moons,
40Or hear the voice of busy common-sense!
41And once more came they by;—alas! wherefore?
42My sleep had been embroider'd with dim dreams;
43My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o’er
44With flowers, and stirring shades, and baffled beams:
45The morn was clouded, but no shower fell,
46Though in her lids hung the sweet tears of May;
47The open casement press'd a new-leaved vine,
48Let in the budding warmth and throstle's lay;
49O Shadows! 'twas a time to bid farewell!
50Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine.
51So, ye three Ghosts, adieu! Ye cannot raise
52My head cool-bedded in the flowery grass;
53For I would not be dieted with praise,
54A pet-lamb in a sentimental Farce!
55Fade softly from my eyes, and be once more
56In masque-like figures on the dreamy Urn;
57Farewell! I yet have visions for the night,
58And for the day faint visions there is store;
59Vanish, ye Phantoms, from my idle spright,
60Into the clouds, and never more return!
"They toil not, neither do they spin."
1One morn before me were three figures seen,
2With bowed necks, and joined hands, side-faced;
3And one behind the other stepp'd serene,
4In placid sandals, and in white robes graced:
5They pass'd, like figures on a marble Urn,
6When shifted round to see the other side;
7They came again; as when the Urn once more
8Is shifted round, the first seen Shades return;
9And they were strange to me, as may betide
10With Vases, to one deep in Phidian lore.
11How is it, Shadows, that I knew ye not?
12How came ye muffled in so hush a Masque?
13Was it a silent deep-disguised plot
14To steal away, and leave without a task
15My idle days? Ripe was the drowsy hour;
16The blissful cloud of summer-indolence
17Benumb'd my eyes; my pulse grew less and less;
18Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath no flower.
19O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense
20Unhaunted quite of all but—nothingness?
21A third time pass'd they by, and, passing, turn'd
22Each one the face a moment whiles to me;
23Then faded, and to follow them I burn'd
24And ached for wings, because I knew the three:
25The first was a fair Maid, and Love her name;
26The second was Ambition, pale of cheek,
27And ever watchful with fatigued eye;
28The last, whom I love more, the more of blame
29Is heap'd upon her, Maiden most unmeek,—
30I knew to be my demon Poesy.
31They faded, and, forsooth! I wanted wings:
32O folly! What is love? and where is it?
33And for that poor Ambition—it springs
34From a man's little heart’s short fever-fit;
35For Poesy!—no,—she has not a joy,—
36At least for me,—so sweet as drowsy noons,
37And evenings steep'd in honied indolence;
38O, for an age so shelter'd from annoy,
39That I may never know how change the moons,
40Or hear the voice of busy common-sense!
41And once more came they by;—alas! wherefore?
42My sleep had been embroider'd with dim dreams;
43My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o’er
44With flowers, and stirring shades, and baffled beams:
45The morn was clouded, but no shower fell,
46Though in her lids hung the sweet tears of May;
47The open casement press'd a new-leaved vine,
48Let in the budding warmth and throstle's lay;
49O Shadows! 'twas a time to bid farewell!
50Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine.
51So, ye three Ghosts, adieu! Ye cannot raise
52My head cool-bedded in the flowery grass;
53For I would not be dieted with praise,
54A pet-lamb in a sentimental Farce!
55Fade softly from my eyes, and be once more
56In masque-like figures on the dreamy Urn;
57Farewell! I yet have visions for the night,
58And for the day faint visions there is store;
59Vanish, ye Phantoms, from my idle spright,
60Into the clouds, and never more return!
One morn before me were three figures seen,
With bowed necks, and joined hands, side-faced;
And one behind the other stepp'd serene,
In placid sandals, and in white robes graced:
They pass'd, like figures on a marble Urn,
When shifted round to see the other side;
They came again; as when the Urn once more
Is shifted round, the first seen Shades return;
And they were strange to me, as may betide
With Vases, to one deep in Phidian lore.
How is it, Shadows, that I knew ye not?
How came ye muffled in so hush a Masque?
Was it a silent deep-disguised plot
To steal away, and leave without a task
My idle days?
Ripe was the drowsy hour;
The blissful cloud of summer-indolence
Benumb'd my eyes; my pulse grew less and less;
Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath no flower.
O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense
Unhaunted quite of all but—nothingness?
A third time pass'd they by, and, passing, turn'd
Each one the face a moment whiles to me;
Then faded, and to follow them I burn'd
And ached for wings, because I knew the three:
The first was a fair Maid, and Love her name;
The second was Ambition, pale of cheek,
And ever watchful with fatigued eye;
The last, whom I love more, the more of blame
Is heap'd upon her, Maiden most unmeek,—
I knew to be my demon Poesy.
They faded, and, forsooth! I wanted wings:
O folly! What is love? and where is it?
And for that poor Ambition—it springs
From a man's little heart’s short fever-fit;
For Poesy!—no,—she has not a joy,—
At least for me,—so sweet as drowsy noons,
And evenings steep'd in honied indolence;
O, for an age so shelter'd from annoy,
That I may never know how change the moons,
Or hear the voice of busy common-sense!
And once more came they by;—alas! wherefore?
My sleep had been embroider'd with dim dreams;
My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o’er
With flowers, and stirring shades, and baffled beams:
The morn was clouded, but no shower fell,
Though in her lids hung the sweet tears of May;
The open casement press'd a new-leaved vine,
Let in the budding warmth and throstle's lay;
O Shadows! 'twas a time to bid farewell!
Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine.
So, ye three Ghosts, adieu! Ye cannot raise
My head cool-bedded in the flowery grass;
For I would not be dieted with praise,
A pet-lamb in a sentimental Farce!
Fade softly from my eyes, and be once more
In masque-like figures on the dreamy Urn;
Farewell! I yet have visions for the night,
And for the day faint visions there is store;
Vanish, ye Phantoms, from my idle spright,
Into the clouds, and never more return!
Select any word below to get its definition in the context of the poem. The words are listed in the order in which they appear in the poem.
The Keats-Shelley Museum — Learn more about Keats through the museum housed in his final home in Italy.
The Poem Aloud — Listen to a performance of the poem.
Keats's Legacy — Read five contemporary writers reflecting on what Keats means to them to honor the recent bicentenary of his death.
A Brief Biography — Learn more about Keats's life and work (and check out some of his manuscripts) at the British Library's website.