'In the Odes, Keats has no master; and their indefinable beauty is so direct and so distinctive an effluence of his soul that he has no disciple.' – Selincourt
In keeping with the leitmotif off all poetry that is termed ‘fabulous’, the Odes of Keats reveal us no conspicuous originality of thought. The sentiments that pulse through the are as old as man's desires and man's throbbing heart.
But nowhere literature, save in some of Shakespeare's Sonnets, do these emotions touch us with the same lingering despair, for nowhere else do they find such intensely imaginative and flawlessly artisitic expression.
In the opinion of Middleton Murry they are 'poems comparable to nothing in English literature save the works of Shakespeare's maturity. Keats's personal experi ences of desperateness in love, anguish in a brother's death and anticipation of sudden termination to his creative career, serve to inspire and colour the Odes
The Odes of Keats conglomerate in them the uncharacteristic excellences of the form with absolute freedom from its characteristic drawbacks, such as arduousness of wording, over-elaboration of form, insincerity and rhetorical narrative, which detract from the poetic charm of the Odes of Dryden, Gray, Collins, Wordsworth, Coleridge and even Shelley.
They are, like old-fashioned odes, always in the form of an address or entreaty: dignified in style and more decorous in tone than simple lyrics. The progression of thought in them is always restrained and the poetic logic has its own uniformity. Their structure is neither too relentless to rupture their unity, nor too willowy to indicate their alteration from the song proper.
The odes of Keats are illustrious by their pathos of feeling, their opulently contemplative consistency, their splendour of descriptions and their immaculate workmanship. They are astonishing for their Hellenic lucidity, their chiselled attractiveness, their unavoidable poetic gusto. They surprise us with their ominous sweetness, their long- drawn out tune, their fine excess and their glorious independence.
Keats has attempted no classical variety of the Ode, Pindaric or Horatian. His range as an odist is confined to that of a modern romantic ode, with preference for the stanzaic usage, of which he is the greatest master. His odes are not choric, but chastely private and personal.
They are the most representative, richest and the most pleasant-sounding expression of the full current of his soul, his keen sense of beauty of Nature and the significance of Art and Mythology.
I have often heard my teachers say that Keats would have remained immortal as a poet if only he had written the six superb odes: On Indolence, To Psyche, To Melancholy, To a Nighting On a Grecian Urn, and To Autumn, and set his pen aside.
I dare disagree.