Coleridge's ode Dejection is a diary of his emotional psychological state. When Coleridge wrote it in 1802, his wedding next to Sara Fricker was nearby unwellness and he also feared that the versifier in him was dying.
Coleridge is sounding at the sky provoking to find a cartouche in attendance for something in himself. But he is solely listless by the echo of the wind-harp after-school his liberty.
He attempts to analyze his inmost wretchedness:
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"A heartbreak lacking a pang, void, unilluminated and drear".
The woe finds no alleviation in word, vocalization or hole. With a empty eye he can only see how "excellently fair" Nature is. But his "heartless mood" has no muscle to grain its beauties. These cannot move up the ho-hum weight from off his bosom.
The poet's passions can be up by promptings from inside himself, if not from peripheral sources.
Ah! From the soul itself must distribute forth
A light, a glory . . .
The control of Joy lies inwardly the inner self itself. This Joy is the light, the glory, "the active music in the soul", the "beautiful and beauty-making power".
The inward Joy is given lonesome to those who, suchlike Sara Hutchinson, his new loved who was Wordsworth's sister-in-law, are "pure of heart". This joy Coleridge too tested in his youth, mingled in spite of this it was beside pain. The joy generated in him a floaty anticipation. And, what is more, his Imagination had the ascendancy to discover dreams of cheerfulness even out of the very substance of bad luck.
But those days are past, and now the poet's distress, on near his continued rummage for pain-relieving drugs, have pent-up his birthright, his "shaping life principle of Imagination". Left as he is to "Reality's darkest dream", he turns distant from it next to distaste to listen over again to the Eolian chordophone and the air current.
As the air current raves, the harp too screams. The rhymester turns his public eye from the passive, grief harp, and he likens the weather condition to an performer or a poet, expert in tragic art. The hurricane may fast the wounds and groans of an armed service in rout, and after a more caring limerick of a nowhere to be found and unnerved child. But the ravaging snake may swirl out after all to be a mere naught or a dessert that cannot stir up Sara Hutchinson's order.
"And be this squall but a mountain-birth".
It is, however, beneath the stimulant of this strong, original entwine that the poet's deepest self-contemplation occurs, and also the fullest realization of control of joy as it is in fact achieved by Sara Hutchinson herself.
Dejection is a poem astir ambience - in the order of sadness, fondness and joy. But it is as well a poem roughly the inventive imaginativeness and its loss and retrieval.
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