Ode on a Grecian Urn
John Keats
1795 to 1821
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Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - ”that is all
Ye know on earth, and ye need to know."