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 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.
4.
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.
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."
Notes
This Ode is mentioned by Lord Houghton in connexion with the Ode To a Nightingale as belonging to the Spring of 1819; and we are informed of both alike that, soon after they were composed, Keats "repeated, or rather chanted, them to Mr. Haydon, in the sort of recitative that so well suited his deep grave voice, as they strolled together through Kilburn meadows, leaving an indelible impression on the mind of his surviving friend."
There is some reason for thinking that the particular urn which inspired this beautiful poem is a somewhat weather-beaten work in marble still preserved in the garden of Holland House, and figured in Piranesi's Vasi e Candelabri.
(stanza 5):
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
This seems to confirm the limitation of the Urn's moral to the five words indicated in the text, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty"
"-- that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
[seems] a part of the Urn's lesson, and not as the poet's personal comment.
~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895.
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Comments
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KEATS WAS SENSUAL
From guest Ajay (contact)
A sensual poet of his calibre should rellay be respected. -
SENSATIONAL ARTIST rather than THOUGHTFUL
From guest ADNAN SARDAR FROM PAKISTAN (contact)
I NEVER STUSY KEATS BEFORE BUT after reading him i am so conviced and ispired by him that he become the ideal of my life he is a termandous writer to whomi ever meet i read MILTON , SHAKESPEAR ,POPE AND MANY OTHER BUT THE TRUE SPIRIT OF POETRY , CLASSICAL AS WELL AS ROMANTIC AND ABOVE ALL MODERN TOUCH I SEE IN HIS POETRY. AS HE CLAIM EVERY THING WHICH HE EXPERIENCE IN HIS TROUBLSOME LIFE HE SHARE IT WITH US.I WANT TO SAY ABOUT HIM ONLY HIS OWN VERSES ' THOU STILL UNRAVISHED BRIDE OF QUITENESS... THOU FOSTER-CHILD OF SILENCE AND SLOW-TIME ..... -
Immortal and beautiful
Look at the way the ending lines " Beauty is truth, truth beauty " is a metaphor for the urn and life itself. As we examine the urn with Keats and he gently turns it around to catch the scenes and leads us to the themes of transient life and immortality of art. This is a poem I love to come back again and again and again -
on the gracian urn
From guest mohammed talaat 4th year alexandria univrsity (contact)
iam an egyption foriegn student but i love it i saw the urn many times but its my first time to see all this images and voyages on it i swear keats was from a to z romantic -
I will never forget how this poem popped into my mind when in the Boston Museum of Art a few years back. There I was perusing the Grecian Urns, and Kests' words were as timeless as the Urn in the case before me. It's amazing how some things just never get old.
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One of the most well known and well written poems anywhere.
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