There is one way to write an ode and there is the way that John Keats wrote his ode. He wrote an ode to the season that we know as autumn or fall. This is Ode to autumn.
How to write a good ode?
An ode is a type of lyrical stanza, that praises something. Glory is a better expression to use. It lifts someone or something to a higher level. If you were wondering, how to write a good poem like this, the answer is simple: there isn’t a good way. This is poetry and poetry is art. As it comes to art, beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, right? There are no techniques you can learn quickly, to write an ode. It’s trial and error.
The elaborate structure of the poems known as classic odes is recognizable: the strophe, the antistrophe and the epode. These poems are based on the Greek odes, usually performed with music. They were also easy to sing.
Every culture has its own odes and every time period has different poems that we consider to be an ode. When it comes to the poem that Keats wrote: it is impressive, that his ode isn’t outdated. Even with the different phrases and spelling that was used (compared to modern day spelling).
The words of Keats are still very popular. On daily basis, many read his work. These words may have been written a long time, but people are still able to relate to his words. Beautiful words, but what defines this beauty?
It is not the easiest question to answer since beauty is something that is very personal. Sure, there are things or persons who are considered beautiful by many. But, the reasons to find beauty are different. Beauty in poetry isn’t easy to define.
Ode to autumn
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimmed their clammy cell.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
— John Keats