SpokenVerse | Endymion...A Thing of Beauty by John Keats (read by Tom O'Bedlam) @SpokenVerse | Uploaded March 2012 | Updated October 2024, 1 hour ago.
Endymion captivated Selene, goddess of the Moon. She was immortal, meaning she never got any older, so she asked Zeus to make the boy immortal. But she only fancied him when he was asleep, so she wanted him immortal and always sleeping too. Zeus, being a fair man, allowed Endymion to sleep while Selene was around during the night, but allowed him to remain awake during the day. While he was asleep Endymion fathered daughters, the Menae, who represented the lunar months.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Endymion_(mythology)
The story of Endymion has been popular with poets and painters. You can read the rest of Keats' Endymion here:
en.wikisource.org/wiki/Endymion_(Keats)
The paintings are:
"Sleeping Endymion", by Nicolas Guy Brenet, 1756
"Sleeping Endymion" by Pietro Liberi, c1660
"Selene and Endymion" by Nicolas Poussin, 1630
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast
That, whether there be shine or gloom o'ercast,
They always must be with us, or we die.
Endymion captivated Selene, goddess of the Moon. She was immortal, meaning she never got any older, so she asked Zeus to make the boy immortal. But she only fancied him when he was asleep, so she wanted him immortal and always sleeping too. Zeus, being a fair man, allowed Endymion to sleep while Selene was around during the night, but allowed him to remain awake during the day. While he was asleep Endymion fathered daughters, the Menae, who represented the lunar months.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Endymion_(mythology)
The story of Endymion has been popular with poets and painters. You can read the rest of Keats' Endymion here:
en.wikisource.org/wiki/Endymion_(Keats)
The paintings are:
"Sleeping Endymion", by Nicolas Guy Brenet, 1756
"Sleeping Endymion" by Pietro Liberi, c1660
"Selene and Endymion" by Nicolas Poussin, 1630
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast
That, whether there be shine or gloom o'ercast,
They always must be with us, or we die.
