With the spheres of sun and moon; Brows'd by none but Dian's fawns; Thus ye live on high, and then Wisdom, though fled far away. 1820. Bards of Passion and of Mirth, John Keats. 40 ODE ON A GRECIAN URN THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness, 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, 10 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, 20 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? 30 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. 40 O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"-that is all 1820. Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 50 John Keats. ODE TO PSYCHE O GODDESS! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung there ran A brooklet, scarce espied: 'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers fragrant-eyed, 12 As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove? 23 O latest-born and loveliest vision far Nor Virgin-choir to make delicious moan No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat O brightest! though too late for antique vows, 35 |