To Charles Cowden Clarke
By John Keats
Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning,
And with proud breast his own white shadow crowning;
He slants his neck beneath the waters bright
So silently, it seems a beam of light
Come from the galaxy: anon he sports, —
With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts,
Or ruffles all the surface of the lake
In striving from its crystal face to take
Some diamond water drops, and them to treasure
In milky nest, and sip them off at leisure.
But not a moment can he there insure them,
Nor to such downy rest can he allure them;
For down they rush as though they would be free,
And drop like hours into eternity.
Just like that bird am I in loss of time,
Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme;
With shatter'd boat, oar snapt, and canvass rent,
I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent;
Still scooping up the water with my fingers,
In which a trembling diamond never lingers.
By this, friend Charles, you may full plainly see
Why I have never penn'd a line to thee:
Because my thoughts were never free, and clear,
And little fit to please a classic ear;
Because my wine was of too poor a savour
For one whose palate gladdens in the flavour
Of sparkling Helicon: — small good it were
To take him to a desert rude, and bare.
Who had on Baiae's shore reclin'd at ease,
While Tasso's page was floating in a breeze
That gave soft music from Armida's bowers,
Mingled with fragrance from her rarest flowers:
Small good to one who had by Mulla's stream
Fondled the maidens with the breasts of cream;
Who had beheld Belphoebe in a brook,
And lovely Una in a leafy nook,
And Archimago leaning o'er his book:
Who had of all that's sweet tasted, and seen,
From silv'ry ripple, up to beauty's queen;
From the sequester'd haunts of gay Titania,
To the blue dwelling of divine Urania:
One, who, of late, had ta'en sweet forest walks
With him who elegantly chats, and talks —
The wrong'd Libert as, — who has told you stories
Of laurel chaplets, and Apollo's glories;
Of troops chivalrous prancing; through a city,
And tearful ladies made for love, and pity:
With many else which I have never known.
Thus have I thought; and days on days have flown
Slowly, or rapidly — unwilling still
For you to try my dull, unlearned quill.
Nor should I now, but that I've known you long;
That you first taught me all the sweets of song:
The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine;
What swell'd with pathos, and what right divine:
Spenserian vowels that elope with ease,
And float along like birds o'er summer seas;
Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness;
Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair slenderness.
Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudly
Up to its climax and then dying proudly?
Who found for me the grandeur of the ode,
Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load?
Who let me taste that more than cordial dram,
The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram?
Shew'd me that epic was of all the king,
Round, vast, and spanning all like Saturn's ring?
You too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty,
And pointed out the patriot's stern duty;
The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell;
The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fell
Upon a tyrant's head. Ah! had I never seen,
Or known your kindness, what might I have been?
What my enjoyments in my youthful years,
Bereft of all that now my life endears?
And can I e'er these benefits forget?
And can I e'er repay the friendly debt?
No, doubly no; — yet should these rhymings please,
I shall roll on the grass with two-fold ease:
For I have long time been my fancy feeding
With hopes that you would one day think the reading
Of my rough verses not an hour misspent;
Should it e'er be so, what a rich content!
Some weeks have pass'd since last I saw the spires
In lucent Thames reflected: — warm desires
To see the sun o'er peep the eastern dimness,
And morning shadows streaking into slimness
Across the lawny fields, and pebbly water;
To mark the time as they grow broad, and shorter;
To feel the air that plays about the hills,
And sips its freshness from the little rills;
To see high, golden corn wave in the light
When Cynthia smiles upon a summer's night,
And peers among the cloudlet's jet and white,
As though she were reclining in a bed
Of bean blossoms, in heaven freshly shed.
No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures
Than I began to think of rhymes and measures:
The air that floated by me seem'd to say
"Write! thou wilt never have a better day."
And so I did. When many lines I'd written,
Though with their grace I was not oversmitten,
Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought I'd better
Trust to my feelings, and write you a letter.
Such an attempt required an inspiration
Of a peculiar sort, — a consummation; —
Which, had I felt, these scribblings might have been
Verses from which the soul would never wean:
But many days have past since last my heart
Was warm'd luxuriously by divine Mozart;
By Arne delighted, or by Handel madden'd;
Or by the song of Erin pierc'd and sadden'd:
What time you were before the music sitting,
And the rich notes to each sensation fitting.
Since I have walk'd with you through shady lanes
That freshly terminate in open plains,
And revel'd in a chat that ceased not
When at night-fall among your books we got:
No, nor when supper came, nor after that, —
Nor when reluctantly I took my hat;
No, nor till cordially you shook my hand
Mid-way between our homes: — your accents bland
Still sounded in my ears, when I no more
Could hear your footsteps touch the grav'ly floor.
Sometimes I lost them, and then found again;
You chang'd the footpath for the grassy plain.
In those still moments I have wish'd you joys
That well you know to honour: — "Life's very toys
With him," said I, "will take a pleasant charm;
It cannot be that ought will work him harm."
These thoughts now come o'er me with all their might: —
Again I shake your hand, — friend Charles, good night.
September, 1816
Poem Analysis:
John Keats's poem To Charles Cowden Clarke, written in September 1816, is more than a dedication—it's a deeply personal expression of gratitude, admiration, and artistic kinship. Framed as a letter in verse, the poem reads like an intimate monologue wherein Keats pays tribute to his friend and mentor Clarke, acknowledging the impact Clarke had on the development of his poetic identity. With its lyrical beauty and thematic richness, the poem stands as an early example of Keats's literary style: romantic, self-aware, and intellectually reverent.
Context and Dedication
Charles Cowden Clarke was a scholar and the son of the headmaster at Enfield School, where Keats studied. Clarke introduced Keats to classic literature, including Spenser, Chaucer, and Milton—names that would come to shape the poet's aesthetic universe. This poem is a gesture of thanks for that influence. It shows Keats at a moment of artistic self-recognition, still tentative but beginning to define his voice.
Themes
1. Art and Inspiration
At its core, the poem grapples with the process of poetic creation. Keats compares himself to a swan:
Just like that bird am I in loss of time, / Whene’er I venture on the stream of rhyme...
This image of the poet as a beautiful yet struggling creature illustrates the simultaneous grace and labor of writing. The swan glides on the surface, but under the water, it toils—so too does Keats with rhyme. He evokes the frustration of poetic creation, the elusiveness of inspiration, and the difficulty of capturing beauty in verse.
2. Artistic Humility and Self-Doubt
The poem is laced with Keats's modesty and artistic insecurity. He hesitates to write to Clarke:
Because my thoughts were never free, and clear, / And little fit to please a classic ear;
Keats positions himself as unworthy of Clarke’s literary refinement. He worries that his "rough verses" are inferior to the classics Clarke reveres—Spenser, Tasso, or Milton. This tension between reverence for literary tradition and the yearning to contribute to it defines much of Keats’s early poetry.
3. Mentorship and Gratitude
The poem is also a testament to friendship and mentorship. Keats praises Clarke not only for his literary knowledge but for the warmth of their relationship:
Ah! had I never seen, / Or known your kindness, what might I have been?
He describes how Clarke introduced him to poetic forms and styles:
You first taught me all the sweets of song: / The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine...
This list of poetic qualities reflects Keats’s deepening understanding of craft. By crediting Clarke with this education, he casts their friendship as the source of his poetic awakening.
4. Nature and Sensory Experience
Toward the end of the poem, Keats shifts to vivid pastoral imagery:
To see high, golden corn wave in the light / When Cynthia smiles upon a summer's night...
This return to nature—common in Romantic poetry—reignites his poetic impulse. The air “floated by me” urging him to write, symbolizing how deeply the natural world stirs his creative spirit. Keats ties his imaginative revival to sensory experience: sunlight, moonlight, floral scents, and summer breezes.
Poetic Devices and Structure
1. Extended Metaphor
The central metaphor of the swan is skillfully developed. The swan's attempts to collect diamond droplets parallels Keats’s efforts to capture moments of inspiration and poetic beauty:
Still scooping up the water with my fingers, / In which a trembling diamond never lingers.
The evanescence of the water suggests how difficult it is to retain fleeting thoughts and artistic visions.
2. Allusions
Keats’s literary references are rich and layered: he invokes The Faerie Queene, Paradise Lost, the Aeneid, and Tasso’s Jerusalem Delivered. These classical allusions create a backdrop of intellectual and poetic tradition against which Keats situates his early work.
3. Imagery and Sound
The poem abounds in sensory details—swans gliding, music swelling, air stirring. His language often mirrors the musicality he describes:
Spenserian vowels that elope with ease, / And float along like birds o'er summer seas...
The line's rhythm and sound echo the image of smooth, melodious verse. Keats's use of internal rhyme, assonance, and consonance gives the poem a lyrical, flowing quality.
4. Personal and Conversational Tone
Despite its learned references, the poem maintains a casual, letter-like tone. Phrases like:
When many lines I'd written, / Though with their grace I was not oversmitten...
—strike a conversational note. The warmth of his voice humanizes the lofty subject matter, making the poem both accessible and sincere.
Final Stanza: Friendship Eternalized
The poem concludes on a heartfelt note as Keats imagines himself walking home after an evening with Clarke:
Sometimes I lost them, and then found again; / You chang’d the footpath for the grassy plain.
Even in his friend’s absence, Keats relives the rhythm of their shared footsteps. These lines distill the essence of deep friendship—present even in silence, even in memory. The poem closes with:
Again I shake your hand, — friend Charles, good night.
A line simple in construction but rich with emotion. It leaves the impression not of literary posturing, but of a real human bond.
To Charles Cowden Clarke is a luminous early poem by John Keats that weaves together themes of poetic inspiration, self-doubt, gratitude, and friendship. With humble reverence and lyrical brilliance, Keats acknowledges the hand that helped shape his voice. The poem is more than a letter—it is an act of homage, a lyrical confession, and a moment of self-recognition. In Clarke, Keats found both a mentor and muse; and in writing this poem, he honors the enduring power of artistic companionship.