Ode on a Grecian Urn
John Keats
1795 to 1821
Track 1
Reconstruct the poem by dragging each line into its correct position. Your goal is to reassemble the original poem as accurately as possible. As you move the lines, you'll see whether your arrangement is correct, helping you explore the poem's flow and meaning. Take your time, enjoy the process, and discover how the poet's words come together to create something truly beautiful.
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She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
What little town by river or sea shore,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
All breathing human passion far above,
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
When old age shall this generation waste,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
For ever panting, and for ever young;
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - "that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,