Ode on a Grecian Urn

John Keats

1795 to 1821

Track 1

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For ever panting, and for ever young;

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,

Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - ”that is all

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:

More happy love! more happy, happy love!

Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,

Of marble men and maidens overwrought,

As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!

What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?

Of deities or mortals, or of both,

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede

With forest branches and the trodden weed;

Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,

And, little town, thy streets for evermore

When old age shall this generation waste,

Will silent be; and not a soul to tell

And, happy melodist, unwearied,

What little town by river or sea shore,

Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

For ever piping songs for ever new;

Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?

What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

All breathing human passion far above,

For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed

Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape

To what green altar, O mysterious priest,

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,

A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard

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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."

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Ode on a Grecian Urn

John Keats

1795 to 1821

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