Welcome to the official RU-vid channel of the Keats-Shelley House. The museum, located at the foot of the Spanish Steps in Rome, Italy, was the last home of John Keats and contains the rooms in which he lived and died in the winter of 1820-1821.
Here you'll be able to find our own videos related to Keats, Shelley and Byron, plus videos of events held at the house. Also, check out our favorites for videos taken by others who have visited and created their own tributes to the house and to the memory of Keats and his poetry.
Written in Water is a brilliant book - it’s an exquisite honoring of John Keats final months & abundantly rich in the truth & beauty Keats so revered in his short life.
Yes, the video is playing live at the moment, but it was recorded on 19 April. Once it's finished playing, it will remain visible on our Channel forever, so you'll be able to watch at any time.
Your interpretation is sublime. Stupéfiante in French. I was moved during all your reading. Thanks a lot for being evolved in the heritage of John Keats's poetry. I would have loved to be part of the guests of this magical night❤🎉
I just found about a week ago about his passing or should we say waking from life's dream 🙏 RIP Dear Julian Sands. I'm so happy that these videos exist and am not surprised to see that he was/is still for now perhaps such a passionate and educated actor and scholar of poetry and theater. As a musician and future performer I'm happy and fortunate to have this precious inspiration. Thank you so much Julian Sand, John Keats & Percy Bysshe Shelley.
I wrote this poem on John Keats some 15 years ago. I have quit poety, but I want to present this poem to Keats-Shelley Memorial House. (Sorry if my way is quite untoward) Ode to John Keats More than twenty years have passed since then, And most I used to see those days, have changed; I can not hear and talk to most of men I used to talk from here and there wide ranged. Where have they gone from me? Of course, they have Gone to some city, state or foreign land, And settled down to never come here back, Or lain in some cold grave, Or taken rest some where imprisoned, and No notes to hear and read from them, Alack. Yet there is something constant in my mind, Some thoughts and dreams and visions of those days, When I go through your poems, I feel and find Those youthful years of life lie there always. The memories of your Odes are fresh and green! How great I loved to read them late at nights! And dreamed to write one like them from my own, That no one could have seen, By bard who lived with different tongue and sights, And who more than you two cent years had grown. I do have themes to write on as you did, But lack the force you put them down in Odes With, the force I may have found in mid Of fake and genuine springs, of muses' abodes. Why I don’t feel to write immortal themes, As you did: Nightingale and Grecian Urn, And Autumn, all times favourite on my part? Quite obviously the schemes Of things have changed, and written word in turn Has lost its worth, especially in Art. ------- Havi Shah
I wrote this poem on John Keats some 15 years ago. I have quit poety, but I want to present this poem to Keats-Shelley Memorial House. (Sorry if my way is quite untoward) Ode to John Keats More than twenty years have passed since then, And most I used to see those days, have changed; I can not hear and talk to most of men I used to talk from here and there wide ranged. Where have they gone from me? Of course, they have Gone to some city, state or foreign land, And settled down to never come here back, Or lain in some cold grave, Or taken rest some where imprisoned, and No notes to hear and read from them, Alack. Yet there is something constant in my mind, Some thoughts and dreams and visions of those days, When I go through your poems, I feel and find Those youthful years of life lie there always. The memories of your Odes are fresh and green! How great I loved to read them late at nights! And dreamed to write one like them from my own, That no one could have seen, By bard who lived with different tongue and sights, And who more than you two cent years had grown. I do have themes to write on as you did, But lack the force you put them down in Odes With, the force I may have found in mid Of fake and genuine springs, of muses' abodes. Why I don’t feel to write immortal themes, As you did: Nightingale and Grecian Urn, And Autumn, all times favourite on my part? Quite obviously the schemes Of things have changed, and written word in turn Has lost its worth, especially in Art. ------- Havi Shah
I wrote this poem on John Keats some 15 years ago. I have quit poety, but I want to present this poem to Keats-Shelley Memorial House. (Sorry if my way is quite untoward) Ode to John Keats More than twenty years have passed since then, And most I used to see those days, have changed; I can not hear and talk to most of men I used to talk from here and there wide ranged. Where have they gone from me? Of course, they have Gone to some city, state or foreign land, And settled down to never come here back, Or lain in some cold grave, Or taken rest some where imprisoned, and No notes to hear and read from them, Alack. Yet there is something constant in my mind, Some thoughts and dreams and visions of those days, When I go through your poems, I feel and find Those youthful years of life lie there always. The memories of your Odes are fresh and green! How great I loved to read them late at nights! And dreamed to write one like them from my own, That no one could have seen, By bard who lived with different tongue and sights, And who more than you two cent years had grown. I do have themes to write on as you did, But lack the force you put them down in Odes With, the force I may have found in mid Of fake and genuine springs, of muses' abodes. Why I don’t feel to write immortal themes, As you did: Nightingale and Grecian Urn, And Autumn, all times favourite on my part? Quite obviously the schemes Of things have changed, and written word in turn Has lost its worth, especially in Art. ------- Havi Shah
I wrote this poem on John Keats some 15 years ago. I have quit poety, but I want to present this poem to Keats-Shelley Memorial House. (Sorry if my way is quite untoward) Ode to John Keats More than twenty years have passed since then, And most I used to see those days, have changed; I can not hear and talk to most of men I used to talk from here and there wide ranged. Where have they gone from me? Of course, they have Gone to some city, state or foreign land, And settled down to never come here back, Or lain in some cold grave, Or taken rest some where imprisoned, and No notes to hear and read from them, Alack. Yet there is something constant in my mind, Some thoughts and dreams and visions of those days, When I go through your poems, I feel and find Those youthful years of life lie there always. The memories of your Odes are fresh and green! How great I loved to read them late at nights! And dreamed to write one like them from my own, That no one could have seen, By bard who lived with different tongue and sights, And who more than you two cent years had grown. I do have themes to write on as you did, But lack the force you put them down in Odes With, the force I may have found in mid Of fake and genuine springs, of muses' abodes. Why I don’t feel to write immortal themes, As you did: Nightingale and Grecian Urn, And Autumn, all times favourite on my part? Quite obviously the schemes Of things have changed, and written word in turn Has lost its worth, especially in Art. ------- Havi Shah
I wrote this poem on John Keats some 15 years ago. I have quit poety, but I want to present this poem to Keats-Shelley Memorial House. (Sorry if my way is quite untoward) Ode to John Keats More than twenty years have passed since then, And most I used to see those days, have changed; I can not hear and talk to most of men I used to talk from here and there wide ranged. Where have they gone from me? Of course, they have Gone to some city, state or foreign land, And settled down to never come here back, Or lain in some cold grave, Or taken rest some where imprisoned, and No notes to hear and read from them, Alack. Yet there is something constant in my mind, Some thoughts and dreams and visions of those days, When I go through your poems, I feel and find Those youthful years of life lie there always. The memories of your Odes are fresh and green! How great I loved to read them late at nights! And dreamed to write one like them from my own, That no one could have seen, By bard who lived with different tongue and sights, And who more than you two cent years had grown. I do have themes to write on as you did, But lack the force you put them down in Odes With, the force I may have found in mid Of fake and genuine springs, of muses' abodes. Why I don’t feel to write immortal themes, As you did: Nightingale and Grecian Urn, And Autumn, all times favourite on my part? Quite obviously the schemes Of things have changed, and written word in turn Has lost its worth, especially in Art. ------- Havi Shah
Un rifugio romantico struggente, Peccato che si debba conoscere benissimo l' inglese per poter meglio comprendere, sarebbe come visitare una casa museo di un poeta italiano a Londra ed essere costretti a leggere i testi in lingua originale, mi chiedo quale sia la logica di una scelta così esclusiva.
Is Giuseppe Albano still the Curator of the Keats-Shelley Museum? I only was in Italy when a boy of 12 so obviously I knew nothing of the English Romantic Poets. That all changed very drammatically for me as I studied French, Italian, Spanish and English as an Under-Graduate doing all my Graduate Studies in French Literature of the 17the Century. However, I have taught English as a side-line at a Jewish Private School and the English Romantic Poets not to speak of the novelists and playwrights are always on my curriculum. Hopefully one day I'll be able to go to that sacred house!
