Let us take first the two in which the imagery has been suggested to the poet by works of Greek sculpture whether seen or imagined. In the _Ode on Indolence_ Keats merely revives his memory of a special type of Greek marble urn where draped figures of women, Seasons, it may be, or priestesses, walk with joined hands behind a solemn Bacchus, or priest in the god's guise (see Plate viii, p. 342),--he merely evokes this memory in order to describe the way in which certain symbolic personages have seemed in a day-dream to pass before him and re-pass and again re-pass, appearing and disappearing as the embossed figures on such an urn may be made to do by turning it round. From the 'man and two women' of the March letter they are changed to three women, whom at first he does not recognize; but seeing presently who they are, namely Love, Ambition, and that 'maiden most unmeek,' his 'demon Poesy,' he for a moment longs for wings to follow and overtake them. The longing passes, and in his relaxed mood he feels that none of the three holds any joy for him-- so sweet as drowsy noons, And evenings steep'd in honey'd indolence. They come by once more, and again, barely aroused from the sweets of outdoor slumber and the spring afternoon, he will not so much as lift his head from where he lies, but bids them farewell and sees them depart without a tear. Keats did not print this ode, thinking it perhaps not good enough or else too intimately personal. But writing to Miss Jeffrey a few weeks after it was composed, he tells her it is the thing he has most enjoyed writing this year. It is indeed a pleasant, lovingly meditated revival and casting into verse of the imagery which had come freshly into his mind when he wrote to his brother of his fit of languor in the previous March. It contains some powerful and many exquisite lines, but only one perfect stanza, the fifth: and there are slacknesses--shall we say lazinesses--in the execution, as where the need for rimes to 'noons' and 'indolence' prompts the all-too commonplace prayer-- That I may never know how change the moons, Or hear the voice of busy common-sense; or where, thinking contemptuously of the old 'intercoronation' days with Leigh Hunt, he declines, in truly Cockney rime, to raise his head from the flowery _grass_ in order to be fed with praise and become 'a pet-lamb in a sentimental _farce_.'