| 1. |
| 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 ?
|
| 2. |
| 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 !
|
| 3. |
| 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 every 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.
|
| 4. |
| Who are those 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.
|
| 5. |
| 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.
|
| John Keats
| Classic Poems |
| |
|
[ La Belle Dame Sans Merci ] [ Ode to a Nightingale ] [ Ode on a Grecian Urn ] [ Ode on Indolence ] [ Ode to Psyche ] [ Ode on Melancholy ] [ Ode to autumn ] |
