Ode on a Grecian Urn

John Keats

1795 to 1821

Track 1

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A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

When old age shall this generation waste,

Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,

Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;

As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed

All breathing human passion far above,

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede

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

Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:

Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,

What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?

And, little town, thy streets for evermore

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

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

With forest branches and the trodden weed;

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe

And, happy melodist, unwearied,

What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

To what green altar, O mysterious priest,

For ever panting, and for ever young;

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,

More happy love! more happy, happy love!

Of deities or mortals, or of both,

Will silent be; and not a soul to tell

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

Of marble men and maidens overwrought,

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

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

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?

What little town by river or sea shore,

For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

For ever piping songs for ever new;

Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

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

Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,

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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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