Song of spring

Master and disciple were heading towards waters to see the sunset more clearly. The environment was radiant with the departing sun. Somehow there was transience in the brightness.

'Master, why do a lot of artists die so young in their prime?' Disciple always has plenty of questions in store.

'Something even I haven't thought.' Master admitted. 'Let's give it a thought. Why do you think?' 'Young minds are energetic, they get depressed so easily.'

'Good point! The restlessness! Let's take a little more standard approach this time, son! As you said, young minds are aggressive normally. That makes them to be easily affected and injured.' Disciple had a good memory of previous lessons with Master.

'I remember you saying when a feeling touches those sensitive parts, truly beautiful expressions of art take place. Am I right?'

'Perfectly said, son!' Master beamed. 'You've added colour to a very common statement.'

`
'Well Master, how glorious is this countryside!' Disciple forgot his previous question.
'What an inspirational view for a poet!' He turned back to see the high mountain ranges behind him.

'Do you feel a sense of transience in this beauty?' Master asked suddenly.

'I do Master, John Keats enters my mind.'

'He is the one I was also thinking of. He is the perfect match for this kind of an occasion. Can you hear someone murmuring a song?' Disciple pricked his eyes.

Master gave him directions 'No, not there. Calm down and listen to the wind.' Disciple didn't hear it at first. He thought it to be the rustle of wind. Then he heard it.
A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
Its loveliness increases
And it'll never Pass into nothingness.

Disciple's curiosity hadn't left him even in the quiet countryside. 'Is he Keats himself?'

Master listened intently to the voice blowing with the wind. 'I think it's nature, the wind speaking itself. Keats' lyric poetry has gladdened nature for years.'

Disciple looked a bit disappointed. He was expecting John Keats to turn up from somewhere around them.

'Keats says 'beauty is truth'. What do you think of that?' 'It is not very logical, isn't it Master?' Disciple fumbled. 'I mean philosophically beauty is not considered.'

'I wish you keep in mind Keats was a romantic poet and lived in early 19th century.' Master's voice reached a high pitch.

'Romantics idealized nature and saw only the good side of it. But Keats saw nature as an element of impermanence. Listen!'

The wind started to howl in a sorrowful tone this time,
Where are the songs of spring?
Aye, 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

'Isn't it the poem 'Ode To Autumn', the one about the change of seasons?'

'Yes, but in a deeper sense I think it implies the human condition subject to impermanence' Master explained. 'He was called the most lovable of English poets.

His personal life also was a kind of tragic poem.' 'Ah! That must be we look from a soft corner at him.'

Then Disciple came out with a sudden discovery, 'Don't you think his language is more elated than other Romantic poets, Master?'

'Yes, that's of course visible' Master answered thoughtfully, 'But that doesn't mean it is not the common man's language. You see son, he was very young and was in the prime in his career when he wrote great odes. Besides, young people are always obstinate and try to discover new dimensions, aren't they? It needs a reincarnated language.'

Disciple did not respond. The sky was getting rosy. He heard the crickets chirp. He felt John Keats living inside him to inspire him to express what his untimely death had denied him.

Keats murmured something into his ears once again,

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies...

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