Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot 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 warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with 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 evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost 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 to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - ”that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

    Let us go hence, my songs; she will not hear.
    Let us go hence together without fear;
    Keep silence now, for singing-time is over,
    And over all old things and all things dear.
    She loves not you nor me as all we love her.
    Yea, though we sang as angels in her ear,
        She would not hear.
    Let us rise up and part; she will not know.
    Let us go seaward as the great winds go,
  Full of blown sand and foam; what help is here?
  There is no help, for all these things are so,
  And all the world is bitter as a tear.
  And how these things are, though ye strove to show,
      She would not know.

  Let us go home and hence; she will not weep.
  We gave love many dreams and days to keep,
  Flowers without scent, and fruits that would not grow,
  Saying 'If thou wilt, thrust in thy sickle and reap.'
  All is reaped now; no grass is left to mow;
  And we that sowed, though all we fell on sleep,
      She would not weep.

  Let us go hence and rest; she will not love.
  She shall not hear us if we sing hereof,
  Nor see love's ways, how sore they are and steep.
  Come hence, let be, lie still; it is enough.
  Love is a barren sea, bitter and deep;
  And though she saw all heaven in flower above,
      She would not love.

  Let us give up, go down; she will not care.
  Though all the stars made gold of all the air,
  And the sea moving saw before it move
  One moon-flower making all the foam-flowers fair;
  Though all those waves went over us, and drove
  Deep down the stifling lips and drowning hair,
      She would not care.

  Let us go hence, go hence; she will not see.
  Sing all once more together; surely she,
  She too, remembering days and words that were,
  Will turn a little toward us, sighing; but we,
  We are hence, we are gone, as though we had not been there.
  Nay, and though all men seeing had pity on me,
      She would not see.