Poem: Fancy, by Keats

One of my favourite poems is Fancy, by Keats. I often catch myself reciting it.

I think the rhythm is what I like best about this poem. It is written in a fierce trochaic meter, each line comprising only four feet.

It’s fast, but not hurried. Reading each line feels like one is being chivvied down a slope, with the near certainty of falling over the end of the line, and crashing unceremoniously into the next line. Mercifully one is saved from the tumble by the last syllable at the end of each line.

I’m a big fan of poems written in trochaic meter, hence why this one appeals to me. But there’s also the beautiful imagery. Whenever I recite this poem, I think of the personification of ‘Fancy’ and ‘Pleasure’, and of the spoiling of summer’s joys. Truly evocative.

But don’t just take my word for it; you can check the poem out here.