Ode on a Grecian Urn by Keats is described as
one of the greatest odes ever written in the English language. It dates back to 1820. To be honest I find it a bit
"flowery". What do you
think? For me the best part is the last 5 lines.
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."
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."
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?
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-fringed 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, unwearièd,
|
|
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 its 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
|
|
Just a bit!!! Okay - maybe a LOT!
ReplyDeleteI have exactly that problem with Keats: there are bits of it I love, but a lot of it is a bit, well, cringe-making. I definitely agree with you on this one.
ReplyDelete