Ode on a Grecian Urn
By John Keats
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."
