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When I have Fears That I May Cease to Be (Imagery Workshop)

BY JOHN KEATS
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;
When I behold, upon the night’s starred 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.

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Last few words: 
This by the way is not only my known poet's entry to the workshop, it is also my personal favorite poem.
Editing stage: 

Comments

it's hard to believe this was written some two hundred years ago.
Keat's thoughts and fears are so fresh and vivid. I bet most of us have had exactly the same feelings, although maybe not managed to express them so eloquently.
So imagery rich, it's hard to know where to start - 'teeming brain', 'night's starred face', piles of books, full of rich, ripe language. And so it goes on.......
A wonderful poem Wesley.
Jx

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am a big fan of this brilliant piece. I number one piece of imagery. Can't find a better one.
Thanks for the choice.

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Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words
........Robert Frost☺

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The last two lines say enough for an entire poem........stan

and weep.
So much of his poetry does this, but this one is exceptional. The Elf's version is brutal. Brilliant. Hard to strip this of imagery and still keep the meaning intact.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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author comment

I'm mortified by the transgression I have wreaked against Keats work in this workshop.
https://www.neopoet.com/workshop/poems/fears-transgression-final-rewrite...

cheers,
Jess
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