My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness,- That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs, Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain- To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:-Do I wake or sleep?

Benedict's voice, Mahler's music and Keats' verses. Paradise on Earth.

Doctor: You have 5:35 minutes left to live. Me: :^)

Benedict's voice..........like butter, I tell you!!! Butta!!!

He has the perfect voice for ASMR. Like... no joke. He really should do ASMR.

imagine what it must be like to wake up to that voice whispering in your ear... one can only dream

I always loved Benedict's voice, listening to him was a sort of refugee from my troubled relationship I couldn't escape from, my abusive ex is now gone, and the nights I spent crying are no more. Now I have a new love and his voice is so so similar to Benedict's, but more sweet, I suppose because my love speaks words of love just for me, I'm truly happy today.

My soul did a weird thing and really attached itself to this poem + the music + Benedict’s voice.

Keats painted a masterpiece with words, so utterly beautiful but heartbreaking. Do I wake or do I sleep?

I have already melted...

Beautiful rendition. Thank you Mr. Cumberbatch.

Ben's voice is majestic as fuck 😍

"A thing of beauty is a joy forever."~from his "Endymion"

Keats* greatest romantic poets of his time, dies at 25; penniless, broken hearted, & thinking he was a failure as a poet.

This is beautiful, the poem, his deep voice, and the music all at once.

Ben's voice❤️❤️❤️ my God..... I can die for this voice

If words are the blood of the soul this beautiful poem will be written there!!!

my favorite poem ever. Here the english language has his maximum

Heaven on earth, this man. He is an angel

That one dislike was Martin freeman

I find so much comfort through this. One of my favourites to recite.

I still melt every time I hear this omgggg

Better than other recitations - 'Lethe' > 'Leth-e', 'delved' > 'delv-ed'. Was going well until 'pineth' > became 'pine-eth'. As if there was a piano metronome in the background. Lovely voice and I am a great fan, but I do not not get from any of the recitations so far the realization of the pain of the transience of life. The beautiful words, the song of the nightingale - hope I'll hear this some day - are like a cloak that Keats uses to shield himself from his pain and loss. That's a hard ask though, but that's what I feel the most when I read this poem: 'Man can only bear so much reality'.

its so beautiful so delightful just and simply amazing

omg !!! this is perfection !!!

Wow, this is absolutely incredible. BC is the man!

This is beautiful

My favorite

Ode to a Nightingale John Keates My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness,- That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs, Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain- To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:-Do I wake or sleep?

Music is from Mahler's 5th

Dammit! I just washed these pants! Curse you, Cumberbatch!

so peaceful !

awesome...

*this... can not not make you cry*

Thanks Kim...

wonderful , thanks -...

Absolutely wonderful!

i am almost crying it it so..........

Wow❤

Simply beatifu

o blessed Miny: thy wings be still and with me.....

The dislikes come from Moriarty and John😂

beautiful

This is a great video to fall asleep to, it really works :))))

If I said this once, I'll say it a thousand more times.... BEN NEEDS TO DO ASMR!!!!!!!

Mahler Adagietto Symphony No. 5

Ode to a Nightingale My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: ‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness,- That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs, Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves; And mid-May’s eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain- To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:-Do I wake or sleep?

💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

wow asmr

Where youth grows pale....💔💔

Aroused and emotional at the same time. Ngh.

his voice is.................

Okay

Is there somewhere to get a download of just the audio?

Can anyone tell me, where to find that picture?

please mr cumberbatch no mo cigs! ur voice is getting craggy at such a young age. be well sir!

By all means enjoy Benedict's voice, but please don't take this as a model of how the poem should be spoken. This version contains at least ten errors, mostly of pronunciation. It's disappointing that the admired actor should show such a casual disregard for this great work. The video has been viewed many times. Should we lament the power of celebrity to downgrade and ultimately destroy our culture? Or should we celebrate the fact that Benedict has brought the poem to countless new listeners, some of whom might go on to investigate it in more depth? Do I wake or sleep?

If you are interested in an analysis of this poem, please click here: kzfaq.info/get/bejne/htWGrJir27iueJc.html

If you are interested in an analysis of this poem, please click here: kzfaq.info/get/bejne/htWGrJir27iueJc.html